


From the Shadows, we Grow

by Pakeha



Series: Child of the Enemy [7]
Category: The Mummy (1999), The Mummy Returns (2001), The Mummy Series
Genre: Ancient Egypt, Caretaking, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, I can't seem to ever spell Evy's name right, Imprisonment, Injury Recovery, M/M, Minor Violence, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Protectiveness, Sexual Fantasy, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Tags and warnings added as we go, Wet Dream, bad archaeology, circa 1948
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 00:48:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5607346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pakeha/pseuds/Pakeha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex is bored after a few years in China and is looking for work on the more ‘dangerous’ side of archaeology.  Guns have gone out of fashion and imperialism is on the down turn, but he’s still the son of a gun slinger and a librarian and he needs some adventure.</p>
<p>Word that an underground Egyptian artifact dealer is always looking for new hands to assist in locating and identifying artifacts is exactly the sort of thing Alex is interested in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Need of an Adventure

**Author's Note:**

> Trying a new format for this! Instead of assorted one shots in a rough chronological order I'm gonna try and write this a few consecutive chapters. 
> 
> If you are the sort of person who worries about canon just assume Alex never had any fun supernatural adventures in China, and spent his time poking around perfectly boring dragon emperor tombs without any hint of the undead or pretty ladies whatsoever. 
> 
> Okay. Glad to have resolved that.

_’There’s something perverse about Cairo in the rain.’_ Alex thinks to himself as he slouches down the street, shoulders hunched against a slow drizzling precipitation. 

There are cafés, cabarets and night markets all open to the street, lit low in the dreary night. Alex passes them in a lonely parade, their patrons tucked into back rooms and away from the weather. 

Occasional strains of music, whiffs of fragrant smoke, and barks of laughter reach Alex’s ears, but nothing tempts him into any of the establishments. Despite the invitation of the lamps’ warm orange glow, he’s on a mission. As he makes his way through main thoroughfares, the noise thins and thins until it’s little more than his footsteps and the incessant patter of the rain. 

He walks determinedly through a small square where old, tall buildings with shuttered, dark windows loom up on all sides. He takes a turn into an alley and angles his body sideways to avoid brushing too close to the piles of trash and refuse tucked against the walls. An elderly man with a blank stare watches him from beneath an awning as he makes his way through the city. 

These are streets with no names: old, sandy roads and uneven cobble stones.

Ten years and a world war have separated Alex from the Cairo of his youth, but the city he now wanders still feels ancient and solid beneath his feet. Despite the wet, greeting the heat of the desert metropolis is like welcoming an old friend. 

He can hardly believe he’s here at all on this miserable January night. 

He’d been home for a two month holiday before his parents had boarded a ship bound for Peru and he, ostensibly, had booked his own passage for a return to China. His work there had been going well and as far as the rest of O’Connell-Carnahan clan was concerned, he was supposed to be heading back for another season. 

In reality he’d put in his resignation with Professor Orman in November. He had no interest in working with the man any longer, digging temples and tombs he felt no connection with. Whatever initial exoticism the Orient had drawn him in with had faded swiftly into the monotony of reality. 

A restlessness had settled in his bones. 

He knows he’s a good archaeologist in his own right. While he’s young, he has made good impressions and developed solid connections in the field. If he pursued it, he could get any number of research or assistant positions just about anywhere in the world. 

But the tedium of trolling through the long list of potential dig sites in China, Peru, Belize, Arizona, Greece, Rapanui, Norway just made his eyes cross. What focus he’d manage to drill into himself while in University had dwindled fast in the real world, when decisions around his work were his own and not that of a superior. 

He was free to make his own choices. 

Sitting alone one night in a bar in Shanghai he’d realized there was really only one option for him. 

He’d typed up his resignation the next day. 

His boots thud mutedly against the stones, the soles worn down by long hours and inhospitable climates. The road turns sharply down and Alex furrows his brow as he focusing on not slipping through the fine silty mud the rain has mixed up in the street. 

There’s a smell of sand and age and smoke and people and even under the poignant tang of the rain Alex breathes deep and he’s _home._

Egypt is in his blood. He realizes this now. Good and bad memories alike, he was forged here. On these sands he was broken and made anew. 

Having that kind of history with a place, how could Alex expect to live and work anywhere else?

So he’d put out feelers, read papers, checked in with old contacts and made some new ones. The dig season never truly stopped around here - too many treasures to exhume, too much money to be made - but it was hard to get permits if you weren’t backed by a major institution. Alex’s Cambridge credentials might have gone a long way in China, but here the Cambridge and Oxford crowd had been stomping around for decades and site claims could go back generations. 

A few professors and researches had seemed to have interesting projects in mind, and Alex had nearly signed on with several different crews, but each time, before he’d put pen to paper, he’d pulled himself back. 

Nothing was quite right. 

It was probably thanks to his wild upbringing, but for some reason the thought of rooting around in a 2,000 year old trash heap just didn’t intrigue him. Excavating peasant houses along the Nile or the remnants of a sunken Junker while potentially interesting to read about didn’t hold his attention the way they perhaps should. 

He’s spoiled. He knows it, and he snorts a laugh at himself as he reaches the bottom of the hill and looks around to get his bearings. He feels surreal and wonderful, after all this time-

The rain is coming harder, which isn’t saying much compared to the deluges of London, but all it takes is half an inch and these streets can begin to flood. 

His knowledge of his destination is hearsay. His directions are jumbled and sometimes contradicting, but the blue curtains in front of him seem to match well enough with what he’s been told and he turns right with a bolstering sigh. 

He needs an adventure. A proper one. Something with some daring and some danger. Ten years he’s spent trying his damnedest to forget the scars this place have left on him, and now walking these streets he feels freer than ever. 

He turns down the fourth alley he passes, blood humming with the thrill that comes from navigating the tight darkness of an unknown street. 

At the end of the long corridor he emerges into a small square which if possible feels even more claustrophobic than the alley. He’s reminded of the secret passages and hidden kingdoms of childhood fairy tales and its all he can do not to tremble with anticipation. 

He has heard much about this place, but it is all in whispers and unsaid things. 

There is a building in front of him, two stories high and stretched back into the mess of this forgotten bit of Cairo’s underbelly. Its at the intersection of five narrow streets, each one fading off into its own unknown stretch of blackness. Alex has no way of knowing how much tonight’s darkness is exacerbated by the rain, but he has a feeling there is never much light down here. 

If you do not know your way in the dark, you shouldn’t be here.

One pathetic lamp is hung just under the overhang which shelters the doorway in front of him. It sputters in the damp, belching greasy smoke as it threatens to go out. The door itself is an imposing thing, small like most doors are here, but more heavily built. Solid. Intimidating. 

There is a recess at eye level, the kind of slit which may be opened to judge the cut and character of anyone who may rap their knuckles on the dark wood. 

Alex approaches quietly, his hands sweating as he prepares to do just that. 

This is what he has come here for. This is the adventure he has heard whispers of. 

His heart begins to speed up in his chest, his breathing quickens. 

There has always been a darker side to the Egyptian antiquities market. Where there is money, there will be criminals endeavoring to take their cut of the profits. The trade in illegally acquired artifacts is nothing new, but it has, in the last decade, _changed _.__

__Where before it was a largely disorganized business being run by a handful of bosses with varying levels of competency, word on the street is that things have been recently... Consolidated. Many of the previous rings still operate, but the digging hands who frequent Alex’s favorite bars talk about them like they’re nothing more than puppets whose strings are held by a greater master._ _

__Someone has taken a firm hand to Egypt’s black market, and if Alex is to trust his informants, this is his headquarters in front of him, in this dank, murky corner of Cairo._ _

__Alex exhales steadily to steel himself, and takes another step closer to the door._ _

__They call him a scholar, a criminal mastermind, and a warlord. He owns the underground, and will tolerate no disrespect. Word is that for the right price he can acquire anything, and in the right circles, he can retrieve artifacts which are more than your average museum curio._ _

__He’s a man with power, in more than one sense of the word, and Alex wants to be a part of this. He doesn’t consider himself criminally inclined, but he’ll do just about anything to get his hands back in the sand, to find spells and curses and ancient relics of awesome power._ _

__He _wants_ this. _ _

__Swallowing hard he finds himself drawing up to the door, and before he can hesitate, he forces himself to raise his hand, and knock on the door._ _

__His parents would be so disappointed, but this is the only lead he has, the only hint of an Egypt which is more than just trash heaps and buried villages and dead kings. Behind this door is his connection to things which are greater than that, things which transcend the concerns of mere mortals._ _

__His heart races, his mouth is dry._ _

__The slit in the door slides back with a resentful snap._ _

__“What do you want?” A deep gravelly voice asks in Arabic._ _

__Alex’s muscles tense and he struggles to relax them as he lowers his hand back to his side._ _

__“Work.” Alex grunts back, drudging up the bluntest of manners he’s developed from the worst of company._ _

__There’s a second where he debates with how to hold himself - Should he cross his arms? Fold his hands behind himself? - and he ends up standing stiff as a board and twice as awkward in front of the glitter of this man’s barely visible eyes._ _

__There’s a rough snort of derision from the gatekeeper._ _

__“Piss off.”_ _

__The last phrase is in heavily accented english and the peep hole snaps shut again before Alex can even think to respond._ _

__For a moment the young man blinks owlishly. The rain is still spitting petulantly down on him, the lamp still guttering, shedding its unhappy light on the square’s only occupant._ _

__Just for a moment. Then Alex bristles._ _

__In many ways Alex knows he is the worst of both his parents. His father’s brashness, and his mother’s stubborn determination. He is proud, bold, and occasionally lacking in survival instincts._ _

__He knows this._ _

__And still he doesn’t stop his arm as it rears up to pound on the door with a tightly clenched fist._ _

__On the fifth strike he almost stumbles forward as the door is yanked open wide._ _

__At the threshold is one of the largest men Alex has ever seen. Dark skinned and narrow eyed, his body is built with the muscle of work, not show, and his barrel chest is puffed up under his dirty gray tunic. Beyond him Alex can just see a trio of similarly large men, scowling up from a recently interrupted game of cards at a low table in the corner of the small room._ _

__Alex swallows hard before drawing himself up and crossing his arms in front of his chest._ _

__“I want to speak to the boss.” His words are in perfect arabic, and his face is a bitter scowl as he glares back at the doorman. With a touch of both English snobbery and American superiority in his eyes, he does his best to stare the giant down._ _

__Either this man is smarter than the average henchman or is simply very aware of the advantage strength can provide. His air of disdain does not falter, and his thick lips pull into a vicious sneer._ _

__“Is that so, little boy?”_ _

__Alex fights down a flinch._ _

__“And what would make you think you deserve the right to meet with him? Approaching his home, unannounced, under the cover of darkness? Like a thief, come to rob him?” The man’s little eyes widen theatrically as he speaks and he tilts his head as if considering._ _

__“A thief?” yips one of the men from inside the room, the voice disproportionately high compared to the bulk of his body. He rises too, tall and lean, and stalks up to peer over the doorman’s shoulder at the pale Englishman standing in the rain. “I _hate_ thieves.” He hisses. With a sharp sniff he tugs on the hem of his brown vest and rolls his shoulders back. _ _

__“I, too, hate thieves.” Growls another, and if the tall one’s voice is too high, this man’s voice is ludicrously low. Alex can't see him well from behind the first two, but the crack of his knuckles as he squeezes his fists sounds like the snapping of long bones in the otherwise quiet night._ _

__The one man left at the table just laughs and tosses his cards down on the table, sweeping the small pile of coins the others have left behind towards himself._ _

__“I am _not_ a thief.” Alex feels a bit faint from all the adrenaline that’s suddenly pushing through his blood. He keeps his voice steady, but it’s a struggle. _ _

__Alex is man enough to admit that he is very average in most of his measurements. He can’t boast of any great height or strength or bulk. If anything he is overly-svelte and just a little short for a man his age, inheriting more of his mother’s fine bones than his father’s explorer's physique._ _

__If he acquired anything from his father however, it was the innate instinct as to how and when to pick a fight._ _

__Right now, every fibre of his being urges him to flee. He has no hope to win a match of brawn against these men, and while the doorman and the deep-voiced thug don’t seem particularly quick, he has no desire to match his speed to the one tall one with the bird voice._ _

__He can't flee though. He needs to get inside. So he must end this quickly, and with words._ _

__He swallows before he tightens his scowl and matches the doorman’s gaze._ _

__“I have valuable skills which would be undoubtedly useful to your employer. I would speak with him, to offer my services. I do _not_ come to steal from him.” Alex spits out the last negation like the words leave a foul taste in his mouth. _ _

__Inside his chest his heart throbs in a violent rhythm._ _

__“Liar.” Grunts the man with the low voice, mostly hidden behind his companions, but Alex can see his enormous brown boots shift as he settles his weight. The young man swallows._ _

__“Thief.” Hisses the bird man._ _

__“One last chance to leave, boy.” The giant grunts._ _

__Alex bares his teeth impotently and hisses. “I am _not a thief_ , let me speak to-”_ _

__The massive fist which collides with Alex’s left cheek moves faster than the Englishman would have expected, and it hits twice as hard._ _

__The blow stuns him, and he staggers and reels to the side, taking a knee to keep from collapsing completely, his hands instinctively going up to shield his face even as a foot comes out and slams into his ribs from the other side, sending him all the way to his back on the muddy street._ _

__Alex has been in bar fights before. He’s lost a lot of them, but he’s always been able to land at least a few blows of his own before going down._ _

__Apparently tonight he's going to break that dubious streak of victories._ _

__Still he snarls and tries to scramble backwards, despite the breath that’s literally just been kicked from his lungs and the spots clouding half his vision. The tall one cackles and brings his foot forward again, not as hard as before, just enough to shove him around and keep him off balance._ _

__Alex spits at him._ _

__He has always had more bravado than sense._ _

__With a shriek the bird man swings his leg back to _slam_ it into his ribs again. And again. And again. _ _

__The pain is impressive. Alex cries out on the fourth strike, trying to curl away from the blows while still attempting to track the locations of the rest of the goons. For a brief heady moment he wants to do is throw up. On the fifth kick he feels something give and he yells because he can’t help it. The crack from his side deafening._ _

__A meaty hand seizes the front of his shirt and hauls him upright, the over-muscled forearm bulging as it flexes, dragging Alex to feet which will no longer hold him upright unassisted._ _

__A ribbon of fire rips through his abdomen, like a great beast is tearing through him and Alex chokes on another yell, trying to double over from the intensity of the pain._ _

__Some dull voice at the back of his mind observes that this is the fastest he’s lost a fight, _ever_ , and the rest of his head is too dizzy and reeling to silence it. _ _

__The doorman punches him in the face again, snapping his head to the side even as Alex twists and struggles to gouge his fingernails into the forearm restraining him, to get his hands up to defend himself, wrestling against the searing pain in his ribs. The second blow has the strength in his arms leaving him, his muscles numb to his commands as his brain rattles around in his skull._ _

__The low-voiced man lands a cheap shot in the pelvis seemingly just for a laugh and Alex nearly does vomit all over thug number one._ _

__His ears are ringing, his body colder than it should be, and black spots bounce in front of his eyes._ _

___‘Useless, bloody arms’_ he grouses mildly at his own limbs, too disoriented to really focus on regaining the use of them. He can feel his fingers tingling almost like an afterthought, and he can sort of get his hands to spasm, but try as he might he can’t get them to raise up in any sort of defense. _come on-_ he pleads with himself, even as he swiftly looses his grip on reality. _ _

__Distantly he registers a new voice, not belonging to the doorman or the bird man or big-boots or the card player, but still somehow familiar-_ _

__The doorman speaks but he sounds different, something off about it, about him-_ _

__Then Alex finds himself abruptly crumpled on the ground, and he can’t remember falling per say, but he must have been dropped by thug number one if he’s back on the street._ _

__What instinct and strength he has left goes into trying to drag himself a few inches over the wet gritty stone in whatever direction his head is facing, but even trying to move his left arm seems to set his whole side on fire. He cries out before he can help it and stills, waiting for the burning to subside._ _

__There’s shouting, there’s _roaring_ , and its familiar but not, it’s strange, so strange-_ _

__The last thing Alex registers before his vision blots out and the world goes silent is a sick, slick crack of bone and the doorman repeating one word over and over again in arabic: “why?”_ _

__

__Then he knows no more._ _

__\---_ _


	2. Inevitable Collisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fact that I've managed to get two chapters done in a month is mind blowing. Especially with the string of colds I've caught. I hope this isn't too incoherent, I've been a bit out of it.

In the end, it’s not the pain that brings Alex back into wakefulness - although there is that, and it’s _poignant_ \- but the comfort. 

Alex is coming off of weeks of boats and trains and rooms in ugly hotels rented last minute from grudging landlords. It’s been all he can do to avoid sleeping the same place rats call home. There has been cold, damp, noise -

Now he’s warm. Even while his side aches lowly, his whole body is cradled by soft linens a top a cushioned surface. He sighs, and for a long moment he tries to settle back into the sleep he’s just been pulled from. It’s nice, to rest. He’s been stressed and conflicted and traveling for such a long time. Sleep is good. 

Except that there’s a paranoia wriggling at the back of his brain that he can’t quite settle. He wasn’t really sleeping, was he? 

The easy fog cushioning his thoughts shivers open and out spills a pulse of fear and adrenaline that has his eyes shooting open as his heart strikes up a familiar, frenetic rhythm. The last moments of the brutally short fight cycle through his thoughts and his body tenses, mind reeling. 

He inhales sharply and smells smoke, old wood, leather, paper - the pop of a fire has him jerking in surprise and before he can help himself his abdominal muscles are flexing and he’s trying to sit up, fresh bedclothes weighing him down as he tries to take in his low-lit surroundings. His rib - cracked? Broken? - makes itself known immediately and his body freezes in pain. A choked gasp escapes him before he spasms and slumps back to the mattress, gritting his teeth at the fiery knife of pain thrusting into his side. 

His eyes are watering and he shuts them, his ears ringing, his mouth dry as he waits for the storm to pass. 

He knows it will fade. It always does. First waking, though, it’s always the worst. He just has to trust that the panic will fade. It will fade. He fights to get his shaky breaths out evenly until slowly, _slowly_ his body settles. The quiet sounds of the room start once again filtering through the cloud of agony stuffing up his head. He tries to count his breaths, tries to settle his heart, and it works. Slowly. Alex sniffs wetly as his muscles unclench and he unfurls his hands from their shaking fists. 

Of course that’s when he hears it. The distinct sound of heavy footfalls, slowly approaching the bed. 

Fighting back a shudder, Alex swallows against the fresh fist of fear clenching in his chest.

Dad says if you can’t run, go down swinging. Alex’s dearest hope is that he can still get his right arm to throw a punch. He grits his teeth as he peels his eye lids back to greet whatever new threat is advancing towards him.

It takes a moment for his eyes to focus on the tall, broad man looming over him. Then he forgets how to breathe. All thoughts of retaliation slide right out of his head.

God damn. 

“Alexander.” A low voice murmurs and Alex’s brain stalls because this cannot-

_“Alexander.”_ Again, his name, but this time it’s sweet and low and dear _god_ this must mean-

“I’m dead then.” Alex croaks out. His throat is dry, and the words scratch as he scrapes them out. He shifts one hand to cradle his throbbing side and he scowls in bitter betrayal. “Why does being dead hurt so much?” The question is sharp and tight, the pain emotional as much as physical.

A low chuckle opens eyes Alex didn’t really mean to close and he glares at Imhotep as the man folds his hands behind his back and smiles simply. He looks so at ease, so put together and relaxed as he stands there and Alex remembers his _hate_ for this man and his power and his sadism and his condescension. It _burns_ him.

“You are not dead, child.” He murmurs, low and calm and _how dare he_.

The fire flares hotter. Alex’s eyes narrow. “Don’t you dare.” He snaps, an acid in his tone out of synch with the mildness of Imhotep’s. 

God save him. 

“Don’t you dare, you _bastard._ ” The Englishman grits his teeth and grunts as he forces his body to work through the pain, to drag himself up the mattress and into a sitting position. 

He doesn’t get far before a large hand wraps around his knee. Ten years, several healthier relationships, and a university degree don’t seem to be enough to erase two weeks of brutal conditioning because Alex’s body goes still and he hold’s his breath, waiting for what Imhotep might do next. 

The flames burn brighter.

He snarls when he realizes what he’s doing, leveling a fierce glare at the former priest, who simply inclines his head and slips his hand from Alex’s knee and brings it back to rest at his side. 

“I did not mean to offend. Rest now.” His eyes darken. “You have a long time yet to recover. We will speak when you are well.”

Then, to Alex’s amazement, the man turns on his heel without another word. As if that’s all that needs to be said. As if Alex can just go back to sleep.

The fires _burn_. 

“Hell no.” Alex snaps, trying to push himself up again with a vicious twist to his face as he braces against the pain. 

Just as before he’s stopped by a hand, but this time it’s on his chest. His injury must really be taking a lot out of him because Imhotep just abruptly seems to be _there_ , his broad palm and strong fingers not pushing, not pressing, simply holding firm and warm against Alex’s breast bone. The only thing separating skin from skin is the thin cotton of the night shirt someone has dressed Alex in. Alex hates that that’s what his mind fixates on. 

Yet he holds still, knowing he has neither the strength of body nor will to rail against such a clear command. 

“What part of ‘rest’ is so difficult to grasp?” Imhotep snaps, a hint of his old viciousness in his tone and Alex sneers to catch the sound of it. 

“Deliberately let down my guard? Around you? Death must have made you crazier than usual.” 

The man’s expression immediately smooths into something neutral. His hand however, remains firm against Alex’s chest. A warm weight keeping him flat on his back against the mattress. 

“I have already told you of my regrets regarding my behavior towards you.” Imhotep speaks cooly, his voice measured in its reassurance. “I promised I would not assail you with unwanted affections then. Nor will I do so now.”

Alex flinches as a horrible procession of encounters rips through his mind: violent passions; embraces both painful and darkly pleasant; emotional desires Alex did not ask for and did not want. He swallows hard and bites his tongue to ground himself, to wrench himself back into the present. Behind the black drag of those memories however trails a softer recollection, something fainter and sweeter and crueler in it’s kindness.

Memories of an Ancient bedroom overlooking the Nile, of words of apology and offering, of pleasure, of release-

“That was a dream?” Alex croaks. Although he means it to be firm his voice lilts into a question at the end and Imhotep shakes his head, a neutral expression on his lips. 

In spite of the pain in his side Alex breathes deep. 

The hand stays, unchanging, relentlessly gentle in it’s determination to keep Alex from causing himself further harm. 

Something uncomfortable and wicked In Alex writhes and he reaches up to wrap is hand around Imhotep’s wrist in an effort to restrain it.

He takes the moment of silence to look at Imhotep, really study him. The man is changed, not so much that he has shed his arrogance and pride, but his posture seems different. Powerful, yes, but less imperial. More relaxed. 

Perhaps it’s the clothes, Alex thinks, feeling surreal as he takes stock of the man in a pair of European-style gray wool trousers and a plain white oxford, sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows, exposing his muscled forearms. From the open collar and the bare arms Alex knows his skin is still a golden tan, colored by a relentless desert sun. 

His head is as smoothly shaved as he remembers, as is his face, but gone is the makeup which once accented his eyes, removing with it some of his air of the otherworldly. 

He looks wholly more like a man now, less like the demi-god still living in Alex’s dreams, and he isn’t sure how that makes him feel. 

Alex’s eyes slide off the man who has once again become his captor and alight up their surroundings. Most notable is the fireplace in the middle of the far wall. The flames in the obviously well-used stone hearth crackle merrily before a pair of wingback arm chairs. Between them is a small round table on which sit several large, leather-bound volumes and a cup of what Alex assumes is tea. 

Along the stone walls are several bookshelves, full of not just more expensive-looking tomes, but with bottles and vases and statuettes colored in golds and blues and turquoises. At the foot of the bed appear to be a pair large red steamer trunks and a stately English-looking dresser. The tops of these are covered too in various artifacts, books, and scrolls, all ancient in appearance and clearly well cared for. Despite the relative dimness of the room, Alex feels certain the space has not a speck of dust or sand to sully it. 

There are two narrow doors and one window which is shuttered now, but Alex can tell from the gaps between the wooden slats that it is yet night, or perhaps another night has fallen. He cannot be sure which. 

In his fingers he fists the fine white sheets, feeling their softness bunch against his palms, and he exhales shakily. Letting his gaze travel back to Imhotep, he frowns. 

“Cozy.” He grunts, feeling lost and hateful. Then his eyes narrow. 

“Why?” The question coming out like an accusation. “Why are you here? _What_ are you doing here? How did you find me, What the hell do you want? Last I saw you were falling to the depths of some grizzly underworld. Dream meeting or no, you are definitively _dead_.” He spits the last word out with a sense vicious triumph. 

It’s a hollow thing, when his victory has ultimately been thwarted and his enemy once again stands before him. 

If his words prick at Imhotep, he does not let on, his neutral expression screwed firmly into place. “You should rest.” He offers after a second of silence. 

Alex grunts a disbelieving laugh. “Talk, now.”

It’s not that Alex really expects to get anything out of the mummy-priest, but against his expectations, Imhotep inclines his head lightly and removes his hand from Alex's chest, slipping easily from the young man's grasp. “As you wish.” He acquiesces, turning only to grip the back of one of the chairs facing the fire and spin it around one handed. 

It looks heavy. 

Alex swallows. 

He pointedly does not reach up to cover the warmth Imhotep’s pressing hand has leached into his chest.

When Imhotep has arranged a seat for himself he settles back against the chair, his hands folded over his stomach in a picture of casual repose. 

It’s calculated, Alex knows, but it’s also disarming. 

The young man takes a moment to shuffle his own limbs under the covers, his knee coming up to counteract the ache which comes from lying in one position for too long. He lets his eyes trail blankly to the ceiling as he wiggles one arm free from the sleeve of the night shirt so he can press his palm against his ribs, frowning at the broad swath of bandages he feels wrapped around his chest and abdomen. 

The quiet way his face throbs belies the impressive bruises which must have blossomed over his features. He tries to open his mouth but can only get so far before the throb sharpens and his jaw fails to expand any wider. 

At least he can see, he thinks wryly as he closes his mouth with a click of teeth. He can easily remember the last time a punch had caused his eye to swell shut and the utter inconvenience having no depth perception turned out to be. 

“Perhaps you should tell me first what has brought _you_ back to Cairo.” Imhotep’s low suggestion brings Alex back to the present with a scowl, he turns his head to the side to frown at the Egyptian. 

“Work.” He answers before he can stop himself. When Imhotep responds with only a raised brow Alex grumbles and elaborates. “I’ve been working as an archaeologist, but I've come back. I want to dig here.”

“Should you not be with your Oxford and your Cambridge fellows then, in their luxury bars and fine hotels, pointing at maps and making grand conjectures about the resting places of ancient kings?” The disdain in Imhotep’s tone is palpable and before he can help himself Alex huffs a bitter laugh.

“If I was here for prestige, yeah, sure.”

“But you do not want prestige.”

“No. I want-” Alex frowned as he wrestled over his next words. Ignoring the strange, abrupt way Imhotep seems to have stepped up as his confessor, Alex can admit to himself that this is an issue he’s wrestled with continuously over the last few months. 

What does he want? It isn’t power. Alex’s youthful experiences with megalomania had sworn him off the very notion. It isn’t wealth. He doesn’t particularly need it. Nor does he crave fame and recognition. He isn’t looking for a book deal. He doesn’t want a museum wing named after him, with each artifact’s little tag describing his exploits in three sentence blurbs. 

He wants sand. He wants history. He wants the flavor of ancient dust on his tongue, the tense anticipation of what might lie around the next turn in a temple which has not been explored in three thousand years. He wants to be the first, and if fate asks it, he wants to be the last to explore forgotten glories to fallen empires. 

He wants his blood pumping in his veins as he follows obscure clues to remarkable ends.

“I don’t know what I want. But I know it’s here.” Alex finishes lamely, absently picking at his thumbnail as he stares at the ceiling. 

“In this bleak corner of the city?” Imhotep goads after a moment and Alex shrugs, not turning to look at this man.

“I was following a lead.”

A low contemplative hum comes from Imhotep. “Looking for Thief Kings and Criminal Lords no doubt.”

Alex shrugs again, feeling like a sullen sixteen year old once more and not a twenty-six year old man. 

The rough rasp of Imhotep’s laugh sends an involuntary shiver up Alex’s spine and he shuts his eyes. 

“Then it seems I am the reason you are here, Alexander O’Connell. How fitting that the gods would seek to entwine our fates like this once again.”

At this Alex’s eyes spring open and his hands still in their nervous fidgeting. He turns his head towards Imhotep and dares him to be lying. 

But he's not lying. He's rusty, but Alex had a crash course in reading the subtle changes in Imhotep's expressions and he knows this man is being truthful. Damn him. _Damn him._ “You.” he hisses. “You’re the one pulling all the strings.”

Imhotep smirks. “If you mean that I am the one who has brought Egypt's sordid black market to heel then yes, I am.”

“Oh Goddamnit.” Alex snarls before he can help himself. A bitter sensation of humiliation and failure spring up in him now that he knows he has run head first into the lion’s den. “ _Why?_ What the hell do you get out of this?”

Either his most recent spat with death has mellowed him, or Imhotep has developed a much even-keel attitude. None of Alex’s barbed inquiries can seem to dislodge the man’s mildness.

He smiles now, crossing one elegantly clad leg over the other, the shine of his well-kept shoes catching Alex’s eye. 

“There are relics,” Imhotep begins, voice deep and irritatingly engaging. “Artifacts, which deserve more than just to rot in a fat Englishman’s parlor or a molding museum basement. Objects with history and with power the likes of which no idiot librarian or witless adventurer could even dream of wielding.”

Alex bares his teeth in a snarl but Imhotep doesn’t pause long enough for him to pick a fight.

“I alone know where to find these items.” He declares without a hint of irony. “I alone can translate the ancient scrolls and understand the codes and clues which will lead to their recovery and safekeeping, but I cannot be keeper of the whole of Egypt on my own.” 

At this Imhotep frowns and raises his fingers to steeple them in front of his face, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. “I am but one man. Mortal. I have found it necessary to build a network to assist me in my endeavors. 

“How convenient it is that in two thousand years people have not changed. Promises of a little gold, a little power, and this city is kneeling at my feet, salivating for my offerings.”

The frown turns again to a familiar smirk. The distance of Imhotep’s gaze shortens until he’s meeting Alex’s eyes with a fire that leaves the young man feeling cold. “Of course, some players are more remarkable than others. You, my prize, have always proven to be such a sweet challenge.”

“I do not belong to you.” Alex barks automatically.

“Don’t you?” Imhotep cocks his head to the side, brows narrowing. “I was able to get some little information from my guards before they were... relieved. They would have sworn that you came here in hopes to pledge your allegiance to me.”

"What!" Alex cries, eyes widening in shock. “I did no such thing!”

What composure he’d gained through anger swiftly dissolves in a new wash of fear. “I just said I was looking for work. I was looking to, to _talk_ to their boss-”

“I am the boss. I accept your offer to work under me, you are most welcomed here.”

“Fuck no!” Panic wraps its icy tendrils around his lungs and Alex’s breathing becomes labored. “No, I never agreed to work you with you!”

“Surely, Alex, you did not ‘offer your services’ to an unknown criminal lord lightly. You must have known that once you stepped into my realm there would be no return.” Imhotep's eyes glitter. 

“I didn’t know it was you!” Alex gasps, a cold sweat gathering on his skin, the heat of his anger almost completely consumed by the frigid invasion of fear. “Please. I’m out, please. No, I-I’m done, I’m leaving.”

He tries to throw his legs over the side of the bed and the stabbing pain from his rib returns with a vengeance, leaving him choking and dizzy and half falling off the mattress until strong hands wrap around his shoulders and push him onto his back with surprising gentleness. 

The ringing in his ears is back, the rest of the world drowning in the artless din. The hands stay and they are terrifying, but Alex is locked up, can barely move, struggling for breath, stiff as a board under the unwelcome touch. 

Broad fingers slide from one arm to cover his chest again and Alex cries out, he swears he can already feel the hand pushing down, compressing, _crushing_ -

It’s hard to breathe.

He’s not even crying. He realizes this in a distant, clinical way. It’s not like waking up from a nightmare, or drinking himself into a miserable hole of despair. He's not weeping, it's just, he can’t breathe, and it’s not passing. 

The hand on his chest presses firmer and Alex’s lungs empty with a rough gasp of shock, his confused body forcing itself to draw in a breath to refill the void. 

His brain turns off for a while, his lungs working only under duress, that hand on his chest huge and commanding as it presses and releases, reminding him to breathe. His muscles sting with tension, joints ache. He wants to pass out, to sleep, but that damned hand stays, keeping him present in the moment, pulling him through it. He breathes, even though it's hard, even though it's raw and painful, he breathes and breathes again. 

He drifts until, gradually, it passes. It always does. 

The ringing in his ears quiets enough to let the crackle of the fire and the ragged rasping sound of his breaths filter back in. Over it all the steady rumble of Imhotep’s voice carries its own melody and Alex feels shame. 

He shivers as he turns his head towards the wall, numb and angry at the same time and desperate to escape his own weakness. 

The hand stays on his chest but as his lungs remember their duty it stops pressing. It just rests there, large and warm in a way that Alex can’t ignore. It demands his attention. 

Between them silence reigns. 

Alex wonders dully how he’s going to get himself out of this one. 

“You must rest, Alexander. You have a long time yet to heal.”

Alex says nothing, flinching minutely when Imhotep began to speak before falling still again. 

“There is water on the table to your right. Stay in bed. Sleep. I will return.” Imhotep’s voice stays low, calm, and Alex just swallows in reply. He will not meet his eye.

The hand still on his right shoulder unwraps itself first while the hand Imhotep has on Alex's chest lingers, burning hot against the young man's clammy flesh. 

In his struggle the neck of his shirt has shifted, and Imhotep’s bare palm and calloused fingers are pressing their brand into Alex’s bare skin. 

When they lift away they do so reluctantly. Alex breathes shakily. 

After taking a moment to pull the disturbed sheets further up Alex's body, the former priest says nothing more and turns to leave. Alex counts his footfalls as he makes his way across the room. He listens as the door opens and closes, listens as he hears the tumbler turn in the lock. 

He closes his eyes against the dance of firelight and shadow against the wall. 

He doesn’t fall asleep for a long time.


	3. More than Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imhotep has some thinking to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guuuuuuuuuys.
> 
> So I don't love the first two chapters I wrote for this fic and that's whats been keeping me moving so slowly so far. Producing work I'm not 100% happy with stresses me out, but I still like this story so i wanted to keep pushing. More happy with this chapter! 
> 
> Honest critique and story suggestions are really appreciated y'all. The first ficlets for this saga were largely spurred on by reader commentary so keep it coming! 
> 
> What's more, thanks oodles for all the great comments that have already been left. I usually avoid replying to things until I have some news (i.e. I know I have another chapter ready or I know one will be ready immanently) so I haven't been ignoring you because I don't love you, I'm just moving at my own glacial pace. I'll be replying to all comments still tonight ~
> 
> ALSO WE HVE PASSED THE 40000 WORD MARK. 40000 WRODS OF TRASH. THERE IS NO SHAME LEFT IN ME.

Imhotep scowls at the dark wood in front of him, his fingers still resting on the key he has just twisted in the lock. 

_The gods are cruel, even in kindness._

The bitter adage rings in his head and he nearly bares his teeth in frustration as he jerks the key free and raises the chain on which it hangs to tug it over his head and shove it beneath the collar of his shirt viciously. 

The only illumination in the hall comes from the strip of firelight slipping under the locked door. In it’s beam Imhotep’s feet turn and start into the shadows, his figure disappearing into the dark. 

It’s a blackness he’s comfortable with. Familiar. He reaches out with one hand and trails it along the stone wall as he moves away from his Prize. Each rough bump and scratch over his fingertips is a turn of the prayer wheel for him. He breathes deep as they witness his passing. 

By the time he reaches the end of the corridor his expression has settled, if not his heart. 

His feet know when the stairs will come and he changes his gait to meet them effortlessly, gliding through the darkness like he is yet a citizen of its domain. As he ascends, his hand slips into his pocket to find the familiar shape of a second key. 

The door at the top of the stairs unlocks and opens silently, the shift in the air flow in the room beyond no more than a tired sigh. There is little more light to be had up here, but it’s enough for the room’s two occupants to hold their breaths as they watch the King slide out of the darkness and join them, The Door drifting closed behind him. 

Imhotep’s gaze slips past the pair of them as they loiter stiffly, backs too straight and hair over combed by nervous fingers. 

There’s a much smaller fire here in a much smaller grate, bartering against the desert chill. Imhotep’s shoes click against the floor as he moves towards the one chair which faces the flames. 

Click. Click. Click. Click.

“My lord-” One of the men begins, sounding as if he desperately needs to cough but doesn’t quite dare. “-we wish to assure you-”

“The incident, tonight, we wish to inform you-”

Imhotep stops at the back of the chair, his fingers resting on the fine French woodwork, the whorls and wreathes casting strange, flickering shadows over his knuckles. 

It has surprised many to find his inner sanctum so... Decadent. So foreign. The dark wood furniture and expensively plain upholstery are imposing. It is an uncomfortable office, and more often than not it suits his mood.

There’s cold fury seeping in his breast. 

“You will find me a new gate keeper before the sun rises.” His voice is quiet but inexorable. “If you fail, I will cut out your hearts, _slowly_. Then I scald them in molten lead, and bury them in salt, where they may burn for eternity. Do you understand me?”

Imhotep’s eyes turn to them at the last and there is a golden glow to them, some trick of the light or some demon’s curse.

The men’s stomachs turn. 

“Y-yes my lord.” The first one rasps.

“It will be done. We will serve.” The other adds. 

They both bow, gripping each other’s shirt as subtly as they can as if it might hurry their departure along. They shuffle backwards through the door behind them, closing it as quietly as they can when they’re through. Their footsteps are loud and unsteady as they build from a walk to jog to a run for the exit. 

Imhotep contemplates calling his executioner now, but there’s more than an hour left until dawn and all he immediately craves is _silence._

His hands tighten, and relax against the woodwork unconsciously. 

Shadows flow cooly through the night, drenching the corners of the room in a deep, deep dark. They call this place his fortress, his palace: these backrooms in the most secret alley in the dirtiest corner of the city. From here his orders reach ears all over the country and beyond, his hands write edicts which will bring a whole world to its knees. 

There is control here for him, there is power, if only he can steady his hands enough to grasp. 

Instead his hands vibrate with loose intensity. Right now in this quiet dark, once again he holds a broken body in his arms. There is the stench blood of his enemies: a river beneath his feet, chasing the rain-

A shudder thunders down his spine and he bends over the back of the chair, fingers tightening and relaxing, knees uncharacteristically weak for a moment before he growls down at the green upholstery, eyes wide and feral as he remembers. 

In short order he breathes deep and clenches his jaw, straightening to his full height in order to glare at the fire. His hands slip from the back of the chair in a slow effort of self-control.

The boy’s chest hitches under his hand, his skin fever-warm, his eyes glassy as he’s tied up in a nightmare, trapped against Imhotep’s bed. 

The priest’s feet follow each other in a, slow, deliberate performance designed to take him around to the front of the chair. The muscles in his arms and back tense as they join the play, the tendons popping out in stark relief as he grips the chair’s arms in order to lower himself into a sitting position. 

Alex’s face is purple-black under his fingertips as he applies an ancient remedy to the swollen skin. His prize’s belly is bone white, wrapped in long swaths of linen again and again and-

Imhotep lays beside his prize, his glorious miracle, his sweet salvation. He holds the bruised and aching body warm against his own and every thought in his head, every beat of his heart sings _murder_ -

A pocket of sap boils and pops loudly in the fireplace, urging the former priest back to reality.

The boy’s eyes glare from the face of a young man and Imhotep’s soul howls. 

That the fickle favor of the All Mighty should twist towards him again is honestly shocking. He turns the flavor of todays events over and over again and the bitter sweet tang of this reunion will not be tempered. It sings a clear and even note which he cannot banish from his ear. 

His Prize, here, again, in his arms, _in his bed!_ His blood as red as he remembers, his tongue twice as sharp, his heart thrice as loud, thundering out its terror and its triumph-

Ten years is little to a man who has experienced the drag of millennia, but this decade has been harsh in it’s absences. The work has compelled him, driven him to new endeavors; towards new, more dangerous heights, but it has been a stopper against a flood, a mere thread to tether an eagle. 

If a man experiences a fleeting moment of true, radiant, glory, how is anything afterwards to measure against it? All the light in the world is but a dim glimmer compared to a second’s pure happiness. 

_This is divine judgment._ Imhotep has commanded himself as he has forced himself to remain confined to Egypt’s present borders. The once endless sands have felt small in comparison to the stretches of unknown distance between himself and _Alex_. 

This has been his damnation.

_He holds a broken body cradled against his chest, his shoes are wet with blood-_

Imhotep’s face is a rictus of fury as he slams his fist against the arm of the chair before he jerks his hand to his face, rubbing at his lips and his chin with fingers nearly curled into claws. 

Dozens of the guard will have to be eliminated, and they will not go quietly. A few may be paid off, others will leave if enough is _implied_ , but the executioner will be busy all the same. He must meet with the scribes tomorrow, there will be missives to send, a new world order to begin. 

The spread of his network is like the stretch of a thousand strand web, and at the middle of it all, he is the spider, sensing each twitch and shudder of the lowly insects caught up in his plans. His mind races as he pulls up names and assignments and begins to mentally resort them. 

In all these years since their separation Imhotep has hardly allowed himself a moment to consider a life with his Prize. Living on the hope that some impossible love may come to fruition has already ruined him once. He had resolved himself to holding Alex forever in perfect memory, an idol, a lilitu to torment his dreams.

Now he is here, and he is so terribly, beautifully, tragically human, trapped in a land of devils. 

The gods must be gloriously, viciously, wildly insane to have delivered such a perfect creature into his hands once again. 

If he were stronger perhaps he would let the young man go and return to his solitary reign, but he is weak. He is human now. He is mortal. Has he not reminded himself of this time and time again? 

A rare sigh escapes Imhotep’s lips and some of the tension ebbs from his muscles as he settles more fully against the back of his chair, his eyes losing their steely focus as he finishes mentally combing through the ranks and tucks away the notes he will be certain to give to the scribes later. 

Silvery shadows dance in his vision as he continues to stare into the fire, watching the little plumes of smoke as they pull themselves away from the tips of the flames to spiral up into the chimney and away into the night. 

As a calm begins to return to him Alex’s words tumble back to the forefront of his mind. He turns them over and over, the boy’s - no, the man’s - panicked face forming his protestations again and again in his memories. 

He has called himself an archaeologist. Imhotep smirks in spite of himself. An adventurer more like. A mercenary. O’Connell must be so proud. The thought puts a sneer on his lips and he nearly laughs as he thinks of his nemeses now. How it would gall them to see the Last Plague of Egypt once again. Alive. 

They of course must not be under estimated. He does not yet know if they are aware of their son’s presence in Egypt. That Alex has blustered into his realm alone, unwitting and unprepared, would seem to imply that he is operating without the blessing of his parents, but who is to say? His Enemy is nothing if not resourceful and persistent. 

Unbidden a memory of Rick’s red, straining face is conjured up in his mind. The man’s hands scratched and bleeding as he scrabbles for safety over the fractured, ancient rock next to Imhotep, the world collapsing, both men hoping desperately for love to save them-

There had been understanding in the American’s eyes at the end, then. When all had been lost. 

_As the world disappears into a grasping fiery blackness Alex is screaming-_

Imhotep blinks sharply to dispel the memory. 

There is a venetian clock on his desk, more ebony than gold, and it counts the seconds studiously for him, a familiar tick. 

Breathing evenly Imhotep flexes his right hand, glancing down at his knuckles in the irregular light. The skin is tight, sore, and he can distinguish the dark spots and abrasions over the bone. 

Beneath his fist flesh becomes meat, teeth break, eyes bleed. 

In his grip his guard begs for his life, eyes huge in his disbelief, but there is to be no mercy. The sentence for crossing Imhotep is death, and not ten meters from their feet Imhotep’s Prize lies beaten, bleeding, face down in the wet street. 

It has been a long time since he has felt the twist of bone beneath his hands, but the sound and shudder of a snapping neck has lost none of its appeal. 

Inside his office the relative peace of pre-dawn silence eases the soul and settles the blood. The desperate fury of before wanes as Imhotep looses himself to contemplating the fire. 

It is late, far too late to sleep, but there is a tiredness in his bones after such a long night. Although he knows the morning is fast encroaching, a warm heaviness weighs him down him in the wake of the earlier frenzy. 

Behind the adrenaline trails something sweeter, something Imhotep had all but forgotten-

Alex is here. This truth curls delicate and glorious in the pit of his belly. The night may be cold, and dark, and far too short for rest, but none of that matters. Alex is here. He is here, and he is safe, locked tight in Imhotep’s room amongst his treasures. He is protected from the coarse hoard he must employ as a guard. 

The young man will be asleep soon, if he is not already. His tired body is battered but secure, clean, bandaged. He is safer now than he would be under any pharaoh's seal, any ward, any curse buried in the desert sands. For all the magicks in Egypt, Imhotep would not trade the dark reputation which now guards is prize. 

To hold the shape of him in his arms again, to feel the length of his body - fuller now, stronger - pressed against him. To wrap fingers around wrists no longer so bird thin and bony but _strong_. To calm him. To comfort him. To command him.

He is more beautiful than he had dared to remember. 

To again press a kiss to those lips, to cup pliant, yielding flesh, to push, to _press_ -

There is no one else here so Imhotep does not reign in the deep, throaty rumble which spills out of him, the slight twist of his body as he cannot help but move with the pull of his imaginings. 

Yes. Yes. While he cannot approach this lightly, this is good. This is more than good, it is glorious. 

Let tomorrow bring it’s righteous slaughter and its bureaucracy. Let his enemy come and comb the dark depths of Cairo for his foolish child. For now he has his Prize bundled away in the safety of his own rooms, and he has time enough to win his heart. Tomorrow’s blood will wash away the bitterness of this first reunion, and pave the way for greater glory. 

He will be victorious. 

As the first touches of a purple dawn stain the sky, Imhotep smiles against the waning night.


	4. Dynamic Tension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy y'all. 
> 
> So I promised some of you you'd see this a couple weekends ago, but I found what I'd initially drafted for this chapter to be kind of dull and uneventful so I rearranged some things and smooshed a few drafted chapters together and well, hopefully this is less dull.
> 
> IRL I'm moving and starting a new job so I've been a bit over-loaded. Hopefully as we work our way through summer I'll be a bit more on the ball. Thanks for being patient folks!
> 
> Also I'm posting this at ass-o-clock at night b/c I don't want to make y'all wait any longer so any grammar f-ups are on me. I'll read through it and edit it up a bit more within the next couple days. Feel free to point things out of you find issues~

Alex blinks awake in the stuffy, unpleasant heat of mid morning. The fire in the grate has long since burned itself into useless embers, but even a winter sun in Egypt blazes hot. 

There is no moment of confusion, no clouded stretch of time where he struggles to recall where he is and what has occurred. It’s simply one minute he’s asleep, and the next he’s returned to this unpleasant reality in all it’s unfortunate technicolor. 

Scowling, he struggles gingerly to kick off some of the sheets which smother him. His ribs twinge, his groin aches, and his face is tight - but he is moving. For what it’s worth, Imhotep’s ministrations seem to have been of some fair aid to his injuries. Damn him. 

Alex groans and twists on the mattress, bringing his hands up to rub at his face, to fist at his hair, grimacing at the gritty quality it has to it. 

He feels like a mess of sweat and dirt. Still scowling, he lowers his hands, his eyes fixed on the ceiling for a moment. The night before is an unpleasant scrawl across his memories. He flushes red with humiliation to even think about it. It’s certainly not the first time the priest has seen him undone, and Alex can admit to himself with only some bitterness that it probably won’t be the last. 

With a sour grimace of distaste he turns his head and focuses on the pitcher of water which has been left at his bedside. Condensation has beaded on its smooth, majolica surface and it beckons to him. 

He hesitates for a moment before he very cautiously swings himself into a sitting position, breathing heavily through gritted teeth as he lets the stings and stabs of pain which prick at him fade. 

When he thinks he can manage it, he pushes himself to his feet with a grunt. The carpet beneath his feet is familiar in a way he doesn’t want to think about. Woven silk, heavy, cool, expensive-

Stumbling only slightly Alex takes a few steps away from the bed, grabbing the pitcher as he moves and only sloshing a little over his hand as he hefts the weight of it from the table. 

Heart pounding with the exertion he exhales heavily to try and control his breathing. A dizziness reels through him as he locks his knees and does his absolute best to just stand still, focusing on looking at anything that doesn’t seem to be swimming away from him. It takes a minute, but the world eventually comes back into line and Alex sighs gratefully. He can do this. He can get through this.

Before he does anything else he raises the pitcher to his lips and drinks deeply, uncaring of the trickles of water which run out the sides of his mouth, cascading under the gaping neck of his night shirt, down his collar bones and over the planes of his chest before being sopped up by the bright white linen binding his ribs. 

Swallowing hurts, but it’s not too bad all things considered. 

Eventually he lowers the jug with a gasp, head tilted back, just breathing. Theres a dull throb in his side which started building the moment he got to his feet and he knows standing won’t be bearable for much longer. 

He switches the pitcher to his other hand and cautiously widens his stance before tilting his head forward, extending his neck away from his chest, grunting once in distinct discomfort before he mutters ‘Fuck you’ and dumps most of the rest of the vessel’s contents over his head. 

The water, when it hits him, is shocking in its chill. He chokes, limbs tensing, pain flaring from the tightening of his muscles, and for a moment his knees almost buckle before he rocks his weight back onto his heels and stumbles back to the bed, sitting heavily and grunting loudly at the resulting twinges which jolt through his body. 

“Goddamnit.” He whispers to himself, shirt swiftly soaking through from the water leaking from his hair, one hand a white knuckled fist clinging to the mostly emptied pitcher, his other hand empty but clenched just as tightly, thumping against the mattress in impotent frustration. 

His skin sings, even as long moments drag on from the impromptu shower. The cold tingles, and in spite of himself Alex finds his body relaxing, just sitting in exhausted silence. 

He hears the little remaining water in the jug slosh as he eventually shifts. He lets his gaze move between the pitcher and his increasingly transparent shirt, clinging to his wet chest, and he snorts. Setting the vessel down he then wrestles his way out of the garment before balling it up and shoving the bulk of it into the pitcher to soak up whats left of the water. 

He uses the sopping cotton to swipe half heartedly at the exposed places on his chest which still feel grimy, under his arms, and down to the tops of his feet and the lower parts of his legs he can easily reach by pushing up the thin cotton trousers he’s been dressed in.

When he’s done he throws the shirt into the puddle still slowly dispersing it’s way through the carpet. 

Despite the bandages, despite the bruises constricting his chest, he feels a little bit better. A little cooler.

His skin tingles. 

Alex had thought to just rest for a moment before exploring the room but a chilly heaviness is settling in him and it’s pleasant, he feels lulled, soothed, and his pains are quietly abating. 

If Imhotep hasn’t been by yet, perhaps it’s safe to sleep just a bit longer. 

This is certainly a far more comfortable prison than the rotating roster of boats, trains, and campsites he’d had to contend with in his youth. Perhaps he can relax. 

Perhaps. 

Drops of water drip, drip from the rim of the pitcher to splash in small puddle. Glittering. Glittering. Glittering... 

Alex widens his eyes and breathes out heavily, taking stock of the haziness gumming up his thoughts... creeping in, easing into his bones...

His skin tingles. 

Alex jerks his head up with a wild-eyed snarl and scrabbles uncoordinatedly for the pitcher. When he gets it in his hand he hauls it up high and hurls it towards the door of the room with a cry of rage. It shatters against the doorframe.

“Son of a bitch!” He shouts, devolving into a wordless bellow because the way the sound rings in his ears keeps him upright, keeps him from reeling back into unconsciousness. 

So much for _trust_. Fuck him. _Fuck him_. 

It’s hard to say how much time passes. Alex is still breathing heavily as he fights through his vertigo when he hears the twist of a key in a lock and watches the heavy door swing open. From out of the darkness beyond, Imhotep glides into the relative light of the room, hazy sun peeking through the slatted wooden shutters which cover the window high on the wall. It stripes over his body in long, golden bands, drawing Alex’s eyes inexorably to the heft of the man, to the build of him, the weight of him under his linen shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show the sweep of his powerful collar bones-

“Go. Away.” Alex heaves. 

He’s not so foolish as to trust himself like... this. Alex hates it. Hates himself. Hates Imhotep, but damn it if this man isn’t... Damn it if he doesn’t remember... Remember when...

“Stop it. Just stop it.” He growls. Teeth grit, his eyes scraping themselves off the planes of his body to stare at the hated rug; the shards of ruddy, shattered clay being toed away by Imhotep’s feet as he steps closer-

“I am not doing anything.” The priest offers, tone reasonable, and Alex chokes. 

“You drugged me.” He finds himself staring at the man’s feet as they approach the sopping mess of water and fabric in the middle of the room. With the delicate press of one shoe he tests the depth of the damage, the liquid oozing up around the sole. 

“Drugs.” Alex says again. “In the water.” 

“There was a mild sedative in the water, to encourage sleep and limit your pain. It is an ancient remedy, one I have imbibed in myself at times.”

 _“Drugs.”_ Alex grunts and closes his eyes. Fingers wrapped tight around the edge of the mattress he watches those feet come even closer, stopping just mere inches from where his own bare feet rest on the carpet. 

“I am sorry that medicine so offends you.”

Alex frowns and raises his eyes to meet Imhotep’s gaze. Things are a bit watery, a bit fuzzy around the edges, but even then Alex can tell the man is _amused._

_Fuck him._

Fuck him and all his talk of second chances. Fuck forgiveness. Fuck the games. Fuck ego. Fuck him. _Fuck him._

Fury boils in him and frankly, he’s drugged, so he can hardly be blamed for the enraged cry which erupts from his lips. A spike of adrenaline throws him to his feet and compels him to slam his fists into the side of Imhotep’s head as hard as his weakened body can manage. 

He’s not made of those boy-thin bird bones anymore. He’s not skinny and sixteen and trembling. He’s not much, but he’s grown. He’s _something._

It’s hard to know who’s more taken aback by the force of his strike when his fists collide with Imhotep’s skull. He balls them up together and slams them forward like a club, the impact throbbing through his bones. The former priest grunts in surprise and stumbles backwards. 

Alex reels forward, just a hair behind him. The momentum of the strike pulls him off his feet and muggily he realizes he’s falling- falling on top of Imhotep as the man’s heel tangles and he trips over the mess Alex has left him in the middle of the floor. 

The mountain crumbles. 

A loud thud resonates as the older man’s head collides with the arm of one of his stupidly heavy chairs. 

As the body under him sags Alex rolls off it with an oomph landing on his back a few feet away, dizziness swirling his thoughts around and around and around-

After a moment a quiet groan has Alex opening his eyes against the lure of darkness which is calling to his horizontal body. His own laboured breathing is not enough to drown out Imhotep’s small sounds of disorientation and Alex takes half a second to try to focus on the giant he has just toppled before that survival instinct kicks in. 

_‘Run.’_

It hurts to get his hands under himself and haul himself to his feet, but it’s in a distant way he’s sure the drugs are dulling. He’s muscling through it, grabbing onto the edge of a trunk, onto the flat of a shelf to try and keep himself steady as he gets upright, almost falling flat on his face as he starts moving towards the door before his feet are even sure they can keep him standing. 

For a moment he hesitates in the face of the utter darkness of the hallway beyond, but the distinct sounds of Imhotep stirring behind him propel Alex forward into the black. 

Into the unknown.

In only a moment the shadows all knit together, and the darkness around him is complete. He breathes heavily. 

One hand clutches at his ribs while the other is soon rubbed raw as he slaps it against the rough stone wall and let’s it scrape over the surface. It feels cool and dry and picks at his callouses as he shuffles along at a pace that resembles a jog. 

He’s spent a lot of time in the dark. It is familiar to him, as are its denizens. In the bleary fever of escape however this blackness is new. Unfamiliar. These shadows perk up their ears as he joins them, and they swell. They condense. They sneer as they gain mass and malevolence and golden hooks almost glint, flexing and plucking at his bandages as he flees.

Deep in the belly of the dark something scuttles against the floor. Something growls. The wall grows teeth, unseen but nipping at his finger tips. He must be drawing a stripe of blood all the way down the wall. He’s painting an arrow, pulling the demon towards him. 

Alex pants and tries to focus but he feels like he’s drowning, reeling away from the devil he’s left lying on the floor behind him. 

_What the hell am I doing?_

He has to keep going.

The young man swallows a sound of fear and closes his eyes pointlessly against the inky spin of unknown creatures swirling around him. 

His run is like a barely controlled collapse, nothing more than his own inertia propelling him forward towards an unknown finish, feet tumbling one after the other through the black. 

By the time he nears the end his pupils have expanded as wide as they’re able, trying to see through the dark. The little sliver of light around a door frame glitters like a thousand stars and Alex chokes as he tries to pick up the pace, the burning in his side throbbing in time with his heart beat. A pounding rhythm to flee to. 

He doesn’t notice where the stairs begin and hits hard with his ankle, tripping himself and sending himself to his knees on the unforgiving stone. He cries out, twisting to shield his injured side, his hand going out to try and catch himself on the sharp jut of a step. 

_Get up._ His father’s voice growls. _Get up, damn it._

“ _I am_.” He hisses to nobody, half rising but mostly just crawling up the stairs, scrabbling to get himself upright by the time he touches the door. 

It’s wood, not stone. It’s pliable, it’s movable-

His hands slide frantically over the surface, fingers chilled by the frigid pop of a reinforcing stud here and there. 

He finds the door knob low. The icy steel is gloriously real. 

“Come on, come on-” His knuckles ache as he grips it and _twists-_

The shadows around him laugh. The light from the crack under the door mocks him. 

Idiot. 

Of course it’s locked. 

It might as well be made out of stone. 

Alex bares his teeth and rattles the knob, but it’s solid. There’s not even a hint of give, nothing to goad him on, and he drops it in disgust. 

His eyes slip closed so they don’t have to see the light spilling over his bare feet, his forehead tipping forward until it presses against the door. There’s a sick twisting of terror in his stomach, and he can almost see the imagined devils crawling up around him, but he doesn’t move. He grits his teeth and focuses on breathing through the cocktail of sedatives and adrenaline coursing through him. 

He almost doesn’t react when he feels the heat of the demon drawing up behind him. So great in stature that the steps tremble with his footfalls, so vast in size that he fills the whole hall, so hot that his breath _burns-_

“Alexander.” Imhotep murmurs in the dark and Alex flinches against the door, shaking. 

There has to be a key. There has to be. If he strikes him again, if he can steal it-

“ _Alexander._ ” So compelling a voice it pushes every other thought in his head aside. 

The shaking gets worse and Alex tries to brace himself for whatever comes next. 

He can almost feel the ancient hieroglyphics under his hands, the beat of the sun against his head, the sting of sweat over injured skin, the relentless press in and in and in-

“No.” He manages to rasp, the word nearly choking him. Both of his hands are wrapped around his bandaged ribs now and the pain is intense. He’s almost impressed with himself for the fact that he’s still standing. 

“You need to lie down.” The demon rumbles and the darkness takes the shape of large arms which warp around his shoulders and try to turn him away from his almost-exit. 

“I need to get out of here.” He manages to argue but Imhotep is unmoved. 

“It is only O’Connell stubbornness which keeps you standing. You will rest.” The arms pause a moment, but Alex remains unconvinced, still determinedly pressing his forehead to the door like he could almost faze right through it if he could only concentrate a bit harder. 

There’s a scalding sigh against Alex’s naked neck, brushing against the small hairs and standing them on end. Those giant limbs flex, shift. Alex is stiff and unmoving but doesn’t physically fight as Imhotep draws him away from the door enough to lean him back into the bulk of his body, shuffling until he can reasonably wrap one arm around the back of the Englishman’s knees, the other around his shoulders, and lift him up into the air. 

Alex shudders as his feet lift off the floor, not certain why he isn’t struggling more except that his ribs really hurt and he feels like there’s a void fast drawing up on him and he’s not happy about this. Not at all. 

He blinks rapidly and listens to the low echo of Imhotep’s footsteps resonating through the hall. 

“It’s not funny.” He snarls just as they start nearing the light once again, brighter now that Alex’s eyes have been tempered by the dark.

“I understand.” Imhotep’s voice is tense in a way which makes Alex want to bolt from his arms, but there’s a solemnity too which cools the parts of him urging him to flee.

The door to the little room has swung half-closed and Imhotep is careful not to bruise his charge against any sharp edges as he shoulders it open and brings him across the threshold. 

Alex shivers when the former mummy crosses the room and carefully sets him atop the mattress, laying him out so he’s on his back, head supported by a rumpled pillow.

Then he turns his back to Alex, his gestures precise and formal as he moves across the room again to pull the door closed with a sharp click. 

Alex swallows from his place on the mattress. He forces himself to watch Imhotep as he turns and covers the short distance to the second door in the room which opens immediately under his hand and reveals a lavatory. Alex can only see part of it from his bed but there’s light in there, stripes from another shuttered window which draw themselves over white and pale blue tiles. 

Imhotep disappears into the room. A second later Alex hears a tap turn on. 

He’s on the edge of sleep and not sure if he should fight it anymore when Imhotep returns to his side, a glass of water in one hand, a single droplet streaking down the side. 

Imhotep’s still as stone and twice as immovable as he offers the cup to Alex. The strong planes of his face betray nothing, his piercing eyes carefully neutral as he waits.

Alex feels foolish and small, pinned against the bed by that gaze. Something twists low in his belly and he feels compelled to turn his gaze away, even as he grits his teeth in frustration.

“I will get you a second glass if you desire one. There was only one pitcher.” Imhotep murmurs lowly after a moment, patiently holding the glass until Alex finally reaches out sluggish, reluctant fingers to pluck at the offering. 

“It’s not funny.” He rasps again, uncoordinated as he tries to sit up enough to tip the water down his throat. 

It’s cool and refreshing and Alex puts the empty glass to his forehead when he’s done, relishing the cold press of it. 

Imhotep gives him a moment, then he slips the cup from his fingers and makes good on his promise, trekking to and from the bathroom a second time to offer him another drink. 

He does this four times in fact. He would likely have gone for a fifth if Alex hadn’t grunted and waved the glass about in a negating gesture before passing the vessel back, flopping against the pillows when he was done in a defeated fashion, eyes slipping away from his captor and fixing again on the ceiling. 

The water churns in his stomach, making him feel over-full and uncomfortable, but after a minute all the fuzzy edges seem to shift back into focus. Deep, deliberate breaths stretch his lungs and quell the mild nausea he feels threatening him. Slowly the real world settles back in around him. He’s weary, but no longer riding the knife’s edge of an unwanted sleep and he almost allows himself to relax from the whirlwind of the last few minutes.

Next to him Imhotep stands guard for a long time before he turns and makes his way back to the washroom. Alex can hear the faint clink that one might hear with glass bottles being shifted about, and doesn’t know if he should be curious or anxious as the bulk of the man appears again in the doorway and once again approaches his bedside. 

He just feels a bit hollow.

“This is the medicine I provided for you.” Imhotep explains, presenting a small glass bottle filled half full with a clear liquid and no label. “If you wish to administer it yourself, you need but three drops to find a peaceful slumber.” When he sets it on Alex’s bedside table like an offering the young man just stares at it in silence. 

“You should not be walking about.” Imhotep mutters after a moment and Alex snorts in bitter humor.

“Piss off.” He grunts, not feeling up to any wittier retort. To his surprise Imhotep offers no further advice, just sighs very lightly before turning and pulling the same chair up close to Alex’s bedside that he did last night. 

“Lift your arms, little one.” He murmurs once he’s seated himself as close to the mattress as possible, his knees just brushing the sheets. 

Perhaps against his better judgement Alex obeys, scowling. “Don’t call me that.”

Imhotep says nothing as his big fingers deftly seek out the end of a bandage and begin to peel the layers of linen off of Alex. 

He works in silence, and while it’s not particularly comfortable, it’s not a seething thing either. There’s a nervousness in Alex which is understandable considering the situation, but he doesn’t sense any real violence in Imhotep right now. 

Round and around the bandages unwind, Imhotep lifting the top layer away and pulling the lower portion out from under the weight of Alex’s body. The young man tries to lift up once to assist but Imhotep scoffs and places one of those enormous hands on his chest, his palm like a brand against Alex’s bare skin. 

Alex doesn’t try to help again after that. 

Soon Alex is lying there completely bare from the waist up, breathing cautiously without the restraining layers to tie him down. 

He glances down and winces at the ripples of blue and black and purple blossoming over his side. The impressive bruise contrasts strangely with Imhotep’s tan skin as Alex watches those fingers drift over the injury, touching lightly, pressing just enough to gauge the state of his anatomy beneath the skin. 

Alex is braced for pain. The drug induced haze is diminishing rapidly and he’s ready for the sharp bite of Imhotep’s touch, but the man remains gentle. There’s a profound ache in him, but nothing more. He almost feels suspicious when Imhotep draws back and picks up the linen bandage he’d discarded on the mattress to begin re-wrapping the wound. 

“Fortunately you have not done yourself any greater damage. Be thankful your rib is yet cracked and not fully split.” 

Alex rolls his eyes. “What, so you’re a doctor now?”

“I have had many duties as a priest.” The man responds evenly. “Basic healer’s skills are hardly remarkable.”

As he speaks he insinuates his hand between Alex’s head and the pillow and lifts up, compelling him into a seated position which has Alex hissing in discomfort. The man offers no words of comfort as he settles his charge and gets to work re-dressing the wounds. 

Alex watches his hands as he works. 

They’re familiar hands. Large and skilled, deft in their work. As Alex stares he could almost swear he feels the ghostly press of those fingers elsewhere on his body- over his arms and down his sides, up his calves, between his legs, around his throat-

Alex swallows. 

“I thought I was done with this.” Imhotep pauses for a moment as Alex begins to speak, but resumes his task quickly. “I’ve spent ten years telling myself that I was over and done with this. I just don’t- I don’t know why this is happening again. Why are you doing this? What have I done to deserve to end up here again? Just, why? Why?”

All the anger Alex meant to inject into his words seems to have been waylaid and instead he just sounds exhausted. “I don’t want to do this again.” He mumbles, voice wet. 

“Alex.” Imhotep murmurs, fingers now gently tying the bandage in place and fixing the ends down. He doesn’t look up from Alex’s ribs, and the young man can’t tear his eyes away from the older man’s face, the intense furrow of concentration between his brows is mesmerizing. 

“I know you are afraid, but you need not be. I do not keep you here out of contempt or some other cruel desire. Even after the events of today I assure you I will not be violent with you.”

“Then let me _go_.” Alex pleads. “I thought- Fuck, I thought we’d ended on a better note than this. Just let me go, let me be.”

“Oh Alex.” Imhotep murmurs, finally lifting his face to meet Alex’s gaze and there is a fire there. His pupils are wide, and something glitters in their depths which feels like it cannot be human. Something of the demon remains and it blazes. “I would have let you be. Do you not understand? You came to me, child. Of all the thresholds in all the earth to rest your feet upon your travels have carried you to mine. 

“There are forces in this world which compel us to extraordinary ends, and these powers have brought you to me. You are meant to be here Alex. You said yourself that you came to give yourself to me, and I intend to keep you.”

“I am not your possession.” Alex bristles, his heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest. “I am not your _prize_.”

“No.” Imhotep agrees. “You are not. You are my opportunity, and you are my glorious burden. It is an honor to keep you, to protect you. Don’t you see Alex?”

“No, I really don’t.” Alex sighs, turning his eyes away, uncomfortable with the un-withering intensity Imhotep is gracing him with. “If I’m going to be brutally honest, I don’t feel very ‘glorious’ being locked in a room as your _pet_.” He spits out the last part with a sense of vicious unhappiness. 

“You are not a pet. You are precious and cherished, but you are not owned. I keep you here now only so I may protect you. You must trust me. It is good for you to rest and to heal. Great damage has been done to you and it is my honor to see you repaired.”

Imhotep stands abruptly, apparently satisfied with his justification of his actions, and slides out from his space next to the bed to make his way back towards the door. 

Alex frowns. “That’s it? You think that’s enough? That I’m just going to sit here for an indeterminate amount of time, twiddling my damn thumbs as I wait for you to deem me ‘repaired?” 

Imhotep turns to regard him just as he reaches the door. “You may do whatever you wish as long as you remain in bed. I will be back shortly.”

“Oh piss off.” Alex snarls but the man has already slipped out the door by the time he’s finished speaking, disappearing into the darkness beyond. 

\----

In the hall Imhotep makes quick work of locking the door before he stalks through the dark and negotiates the last obstacle to his outer rooms. 

When that door too is safely locked behind him he allows himself a single moment to relax. 

Across his desk are scattered the morning’s missives where he’d abandoned them upon hearing the distant, angered cries of his charge. 

_’So spirited.’_ He thinks to himself, a curl of warm delight twining in his belly as he lifts one hand to brush the bruise forming at the base of his head. The boy’s hit was hardly enough to leave a mark, but the strike of the chair had done a fair job of stunning him. It’s almost enough to make him laugh, the absurdity of it-

He settles for smiling a small, private smile. Glancing at his morning’s work, he dismisses it for later before striding out of the dark office and into the maze of marble corridors which make up the rest of the building. 

There had been a moment there where he had been absolutely furious: calves of his trousers soaked from the water on the floor, his ears ringing, and his prize scrambling madly to drag himself through the door and to an imagined freedom. It hadn’t lasted long, the blaze of fury quick to die as he rose to follow at a more sedate pace, his sharp hearing picking up the panicked breaths and shuddering heart beats of the young O’Connell. 

He supposes it’s hardly fair to blame the young man for his outburst, medicines can behave strangely in different mouths afterall. 

By the time he had drawn up behind him at the end of the hallway his anger had been tempered with pity and concern, the young man’s trembling in the face of defeat bolstering the deep desire in him to shelter and care for this rare creature. 

The building is quiet around him. He sent his many attendants to their tasks early and expects to see little of them before evening. He makes his way to the kitchens and finds a large plate prepared as he had asked, piled with fruits and breads and a small amount of perch. 

Imhotep took a moment to sample a portion of everything, taking his time to chew and swallow each bite, letting it hit his stomach and rest there a moment. When everything from the sweet dates to the rich fish prove to be of quality he plucks up a cloth from the counter and wipes his fingers clean. He then lifts the charger to take it back to his prize. 

Any irritation from earlier events has extinguished itself entirely, and a true thrum of pleasure pulses through him as he makes his way back to his rooms. Let Alex argue, let him fight. He will meet him with care at every turn. 

Imhotep’s teeth glint white and sharp in the dimness of the halls as once again he allows himself a small, victorious smile. 

\----

Alex is not reclining when Imhotep enters the small bedroom again, but he has at least remained seated on the mattress. Imhotep will accept the compromise for what it is, though he does level a disappointed glare in the young man’s direction as he moves to balance the plate in his hands on a corner of the bedside table. 

“Are you hungry?” Imhotep inquires after he’s seated himself once again next to the bed. 

The words come out in such a way that Alex knows it’s not really a question and he rolls his eyes, pointedly remaining sitting upright even as Imhotep relaxes into the back of his chair. 

“Actually the _drugs_ have made me a bit ill.” Alex remarks in a clipped tone, turning his head away from Imhotep and the food to stare at the rows of books filling one shelf along the wall at the foot of the bed. They’re mostly in Arabic, English, and French, although Alex has been struggling his way through the translation of a few Hebrew spines in the half hour Imhotep has been gone. 

There’s no response from the former priest, but Alex can hear him moving about, his rustling and fussing thankfully disguising the gurgle which betrays Alex’s empty stomach. Most definitely not flushing, Alex squints at a title whose gilded letters have faded, parsing his way through an unfamiliar noun. 

“Alexander.” The murmured name after a long moment’s silence has Alex turning his head before he can really help himself, expression wary as he regards his captor. 

In the man’s hand is a piece of flat bread with some fruit and an unfamiliar spread balanced on top of it. There is no waver in his hold, no subtle shift and sway which might betray him as a normal man. He is still as stone and seems utterly relaxed as he offers the food to Alex, assured that the other will take it. 

The stubbornness in Alex nearly refuses, but he is hungry. He sighs. 

When he lifts his hands to take the bread however Imhotep shakes his head minutely, stilling him. 

“Just a taste Alex. Do not make yourself ill.”

The patience in Imhotep seems infinite, the stillness of him, the overwhelming mass of his presence. 

The room seems to dim a bit at the edges as everything in Alex focuses on the man in front of him. The demons in the hall whimper as the weak sunlight dulls and Alex breathes deep the smells of stone and woodsmoke and sweet dates which assail him, his stomach twisting-

He swallows and blinks a few times, but doesn’t pull his eyes away. 

Imhotep’s nostrils flare as he watches Alex’s stubborn features brace for a fight, stiffen in defiance. The young man leans in, movements a bit faltering, stomach muscles weak from injury but sheer force of will compelling him. 

He opens his mouth and closes his teeth over the end of the offering. The action is the work of moments, but Imhotep let’s it stretch for a small eternity before he lets the next seconds trickle in. A small piece of the meal disappears behind Alex’s lips and Imhotep forces himself to breathe. 

The world rights itself with the same swiftness that it faltered, and Alex chews his mouthful, the mix of buttery-sweet and earthy not a flavor he can precisely recall having sampled before, but the profile is familiar. Nostalgic. 

His features adopt a softer countenance without him realizing it and Imhotep can’t tear his eyes away, still staring, drinking in the features of his prize. He lifts the food in his hand to his own lips and takes his part of the meal. 

They have done this before, Alex thinks. Some of the memories of the before times are muddled, dulled by alcohol and a decade of forgetting. They have done this, but he can’t remember the precise details- only that it feels familiar in a warm and slippery way to take in this way. 

A minute of solemn silence as Alex picks at the memory, tries to hold on to the ghost of a feeling, but as it slips from his mind so does the spell. 

Alex blinks, and a laugh escapes him. He’s mocking him as he swoops forward to snag another bite from Imhotep’s hands, defiant, and Imhotep’s heart thunders. 

“Your guards are assholes.” Alex declares when he swallows his second mouthful. He reaches up, palm out, waiting until Imhotep takes one more bite of their shared meal and places the rest of it in Alex’s hand. 

Seemingly unbothered by the shift in mood the former priest turns again to the plate.

“They are an unfortunate necessity. Fear keeps them loyal, and their brute strength keeps unwanted visitors out.” Imhotep makes every effort to keep his tone neutral, his displeasure disguised, but even an oblique mention of the violence his men visited upon his prize is enough carve a deep furrow of displeasure into his brow. 

Alex works his way through a large bite of bread and fruit before he speaks again. 

“You didn’t know I was coming, did you.” The revelation as it dawns on him kills the giddiness he’d felt for a lovely second, leaving him chilled and a bit unsteady.

There’s a look of intense concentration on Imhotep’s face, his focus off of Alex and on the charger as he carefully selects a piece of Nile perch and raises it to his lips, placing it on his tongue as if to savor it, drawing out the moment. Alex’s own throat feels dry as he watches Imhotep chew and swallow. “I would have killed those men before you had even stepped foot in Cairo if I had known you were planning to draw so near to me.”

Imhotep is nearly startled by his own confession. Once he’s revealed it though, he has no desire to draw it back, satisfied with his own honesty. 

Alex has nothing to say in answer to that. 

So they work their way through the rest of the food in silence, Imhotep offering bread and fruit and fish to Alex in turn. 

Almost without realizing it, nearly an hour passes somewhat comfortably between the two of them. 

Imhotep decides he is content with the morning. 

Nodding his head in approval the older man rises eventually, gathering the plate as he moves to leave and return to his abandoned duties. 

Over the course of the meal Alex has turned his face back to the bookshelf, working through the titles again, wondering lazily what the tomes might say about their owner. As he hears Imhotep get up to leave however he turns to face him. 

“I don’t want to work for you.” He calls out like its an afterthought, only just catching his companion as he’s crossing the threshold into the dark. 

For a second Imhotep pauses, and when he turns he reveals the rich smile pulling at his lips. “We will see.” He answers, solemnly before he bows his head shallowly over the plate of crumbs. “Rest. You still need to heal.” Are his parting words before he turns again to the darkness and door shuts behind him. 

When he hears the click of the lock sliding into place Alex can’t seem to help himself as he tips backwards onto the mattress and laughs.


	5. Here we go again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evy has a feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw fuck it. I was hoping I could upload three chapters all at once since these 5 and 6 are shorties, but that last section is taking longer to write than I'd hoped. So for now here is chapter 5 (and 6, woo). Hopefully 7 will be done soon. 
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving to all those American readers out there!

The port at Lima is a hive of activity, the thick scent of ocean brine and the refuse of everyday life a potent perfume. Far off, over the tops of worn colonial buildings and cobbled streets, dense green-gray hills build into a rugged landscape. The mountains and deserts beyond beckon with their deeply buried secrets. 

Rick grunts, feeling the strain in his underused legs as he hoists one of his and his wife’s trunks up on to his shoulder. Weeks at sea leave him a bit weak in the knee, and he frowns at himself, nearly stumbling as he makes his way towards they car they’ve hired to take them to their hotel. 

He hears Evy muttering at her brother behind him but knows better than to turn around and see what he’s being scolded for now. The Englishman blusters vaguely as Rick shakes his head and moves out of earshot, tossing the trunk onto the luggage rack with a sigh and nodding at the driver gratefully as the man quickly moves to begin lashing it down alongside their other bags. 

For a moment he just stands there, using the back of one hand to wipe the sweat from his brow as he looks towards the mountains in the distance. 

In spite of his weariness, his weak knees and the creeping feeling that he’s getting a bit old for this, there’s an undeniable spark of excitement deep in his gut. It’s been a long time since they’ve been out of the country. While Jonathan has made a few treasure hunting expeditions around the world, he and Evy have been rather boring for the last few years. Book deals and English expectations breed a certain lethargy that Rick is only too eager to shuck. 

This opportunity to join in on a Peruvian expedition feels like just the ticket for them. A nice little adventure: nothing magical, or cursed. A few weeks of some rough terrain and a bit of digging and they'd be right as rain.

Taking a deep breath of the salty-sour air he turns back to his wife and his brother-in-law, fully prepared to break the two of their bickering and get them on their way. 

“I mean it, this is not one of your _‘excursions’_ , this is an academic expedition.” Evy gestures sharply at her only brother, a steely look in her eye. Jonathan appears a bit helpless, hands in the air and eyes a bit wild. 

“I swear Evy it was just a stray thought, I wouldn’t actually-”

“Yes you would, I know you, and if you slip away tonight for some dubious deed so help me-”

Rick snorts a laugh and takes a step towards the two of them when a sudden shriek overhead draws him up short. A strange silence grips the recently arrived trio and the sounds of dock hands and heavy machinery, idling cars and slapping waves all grow dull and fade out. They turn their eyes upward and stare. 

Far above a hawk is screaming.

It is a lean, sleek thing, a dark mark against the cloudless sky. While it is low enough to be hunting, seeking some fish or dock rat for a meal, it doesn’t seem to be following any particular route. Its riding some unfelt updraft perhaps, tightly circling once, twice- it's almost eerie in how in synch it seems to be with their position. A strange sort of dread pricks at Rick's breast before it shrieks again and turns its back to them, retracing its flightpath over the city and towards the mountains. 

It cries one last time as it departs, head canted, then it’s gone, growing smaller and smaller as it soars away. 

Rick shivers. Of course it’s ridiculous, but he could nearly swear the bird had had them in its sights: the glinting gold of it’s eye was bright like a jewel reflecting the desert sun-

Life around them roars back into full volume and Rick swallows, inhaling sharply as he realizes he’d been holding his breath 

“Weird.” He says slowly, mostly to himself but the word draws Jonathan’s attention anyway, the pale Englishman looking decidedly uneasy. 

“Damn noisy pigeon.” He remarks, smiling wanly at the American.

Evy meanwhile has her eyes still trained to the sky, gazing off at the swiftly retreating speck. 

Her heart thunders and she feels a bit dizzy, an anxiety in her swelling and swelling. 

“Something’s wrong.” She murmurs finally, breathing very deliberate, even breaths to try and calm herself.

The men don’t seem to hear her, already shaking off the odd moment and turning towards the car. Their cabby is nearly finished tying everything down and they’ll be ready to get on their way in a moment. 

“Something’s wrong.” Evy says agin, louder this time, turning to face her husband. “Something is definitely wrong. No, not with the bloody car!” Her tremulous tone turns to a thundering one as Rick turns to look at their driver accusingly.

Jonathan's eyes widen to hear his baby sister swear. He freezes in his tracks, waiting. It is so rare to hear her use such language, he finds himself exceedingly uneasy. 

“Evy.” Rick says lowly, approaching his wife like he might a wild animal. He loves her immensely, and would face down hell itself for her, but at times she spooks him. 

A decade ago things had been revealed to them: an ancient history written into their very bones. England has done its best to dampen these extraordinary revelations. Past lives and great prophecies have little place in a country manor. Still, there a moments where Rick gets a glimpse of woman he only barely understands. He looks at Evy and sees the wheels of time which have turned and turned, the meddling of powers beyond his reckoning, the very work of ages in her. He would never tell her this, but honestly, it frightens him. 

It humbles him. Once he dismissed these feelings, dismissed her, but he has seen too much to ever allow himself such ignorance again. 

It unnerves him to know there are greater things at work in their lives than they can ever hope to understand and control. Yet he will listen. He has to. 

He places his large hands on her slight shoulders and waits until her eyes truly focus on him, waiting to hear what she has to say. 

“Evy?”

Her gaze sharpens on his face and he sees the determination which takes her. “We have to go back. We have to find a boat immediately. We have to go back.”

“To England? We just got here.” Jonathan butts in, bewildered.

“Honey, I don’t understand, what are you thinking-”

Evy shakes her head sharply, then brings her hands up to place them over Rick’s. Her grip is firm, she does not tremble. 

“Rick, just trust me.” She says in a clear, even voice. “We have to go back. _”There’s something wrong with Alex.”_


	6. Safer in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex has a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was definitely not an excuse to have sexy times before we get some emotional healing for these two. At least not entirely. Maybe.
> 
> Once again this chapter was supposed to be posted simultaneously with the next but I am writing slowly. We're about 80% done with chapter 7 though so hopefully I'll get it out soon.

The cry of some distant bird of prey finds Alex standing before a series of broad arched windows which overlook the wending Nile. Far above in a cloudless sky he spies the dark speck of a swooping raptor, slowly circling the heavens again and again, the sun a blazing disc rotating above her outstretched wings. 

It’s a pretty thing, the way it twists and winds, tendrils of cloud and sunlight trailing after it, tangling it, suspending it in the air like the strings of a marionette. 

Far, far below on the claustrophobic streets of Cairo the bird casts a massive shadow.

Alex turns his gaze downward and watches as the sweeping darkness gradually overtakes the city. At first it seems like it just covers a single house, then a street, and then a whole neighborhood. The chilly shadow flows like a liquid through the streets, towing stillness and quiet behind it. 

The distant market racket, strangely rhythmic and thudding, goes silent, and he shivers, stepping back from the window quickly before the shadow can find him too. 

“Alex.” Behind him there comes a voice, warm and deep. “Alex.”

He turns and finds himself standing at the foot of a familiar bed: decadent in its size and luxurious in its appointments. Bright white linen is a vivid comfort and Alex finds himself bending his knee and sliding forward until he is kneeling on the soft fabric, eyes trained on the broad, dark figure of Imhotep who lounges atop the covers. 

The man’s eyes are closed as if he sleeps, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Alex watches, and as he watches a sense of peace begins to diffuse through his chest. 

Imhotep is nude and unembarrassed, laid out fully on his back, one arm cast aside to cover the empty space beside him, a space which seems molded in a familiar shape-

“Alex.”

The man’s lips don’t move, his eyes do not open, but the voice comes again, soft and soothing. Alex swallows and sways forward, tempted-

Then, in the manner of dreams, Alex is suddenly and brutally aware that he too is naked. 

A blaze of shame roars up and he tries to shrink back from the scene. He wants to recover his modesty, but he has little control over his body. 

His effort to recoil however is too difficult, the stress on his limbs too taxing. For a minute he fights, trying to wrest himself away from the invisible weights which are holding his limbs captive. He tries to close his eyes, to shield himself with his hands, but it feels hopeless and he despairs. His muscles all relax, his weight settling heavily as he sits on his heels. Tears of frustration and humiliation fill his eyes, and his hands form useless fists at his sides. 

“Alexander.”

Alex opens his mouth to reply but nothing more than a breathy sigh escapes. He blinks rapidly to banish the tears, to steady himself.

“ _Alexander_.” 

A sense of peace returns to him slowly. The lull seeps into his bones, and Alex gradually calms. His focus is again drawn to his companion, and he knows this is a man who has seen him laid bare before and not found him wanting. 

A part of Alex knows this is strange, to be here again after all these years. He’s dreamt of this room often enough - sometimes pleasantly and sometimes not - but this feels new. It feels different: too real to be a dream, too strange to be reality-

“My sweet prize.” Imhotep cracks opens his eyes, but only just, his lips curling into a soft smile but his mouth yet closed. His voice is more of a physical thing than a simple sound, with mass and purpose and a strength which wraps around Alex’s body and warms him. He whines quietly under his breath and does not feel ashamed. 

“Be easy, child, all is well.”

 _‘I am not a child.’_ The dull protest rises petulantly to his mind but Alex finds himself obeying anyways. He relaxes and rises up once more to shuffle slowly forward on his knees towards the tanned flesh spread out before him. 

It seems at once to take him an age and no time at all until he is so close to Imhotep that he can feel the heat radiating off of him, that blazing desert fire which fuels him. Alex whines again, his hands reaching out to touch, to take in the shape and texture of the man’s skin, of his chest, his shoulders, before finally Alex's hands find themselves resting on either side of Imhotep's neck and he dips his head and touches his lips to that softly smiling mouth. His fingers flex and dig into the thick muscle under them. His hands are freezing compared to Imhotep’s warmth and the large man brings his own hands up to cover them. 

Alex parts his lips tentatively and waits. Imhotep rewards him by parting his own lips, his tongue slipping forward to enter the young man’s mouth, probing gently, tasting, stroking softly before withdrawing to focus on simply claiming his partner’s damp lips once more. 

Alex feels the man’s fingers begin to slide up his arms, from wrist to forearm to elbow, carving a path of fire in their wake. A whimper escapes Alex’s throat as a tingling pleasure rises in his every delicate nerve to meet Imhotep’s ministrations. 

_He’s so hard_ , and he feels so hollow, so needy-

He draws his face away from Imhotep’s, panting as if he’s been running, sprinting, doing anything more than this gentle kissing, skin flushing as that heat bleeds out of Imhotep’s hands and up through his shoulders, his neck, his cheeks burning with a shy, desperate warmth. 

Alex wants, he wants so very much-

Moving by some base compulsion Alex ducks his head and brings his face down to nose at Imhotep’s throat, his lips touching the skin there, his tongue slipping out to lick, to taste, to feel the gentle vibrations of Imhotep’s hum of pleasure. 

He sucks a mark there, testing, savoring the pliant give of his partner’s skin before he releases the man from his grasp so he can slide down further. His nose slips down into the valley between the man’s firm pectorals, and he turns his face to rub his cheek against his sternum, shivering as he then slips to the side just enough to wrap his lips around a nipple, suckling sweetly at the peaked flesh. The nub is smooth and soft, the skin faintly salty with a sweat of a day’s labor and Alex whimpers once more, sucking harder while Imhotep rumbles out another low sound of appreciation. Massive hands, broad and steady and calm reach up to wrap around his skull, cupping Alex’s head to his chest. Alex’s whole body shakes as he presses his tongue hard against the man’s flesh, massaging the muscle desperately, before he traps the bud between his teeth and delicately _bites_ -

Imhotep’s pleasure noises abruptly become louder, his hum becomes a groan, a low hefty sound accompanied by the blunt pressure of his fingers gripping Alex’s head tighter. Alex nurses awhile longer, drawing more sounds from his companion, each one more lovely than the last. When finally Imhotep opens his mouth and murmurs his name, “ _Alexander-_ ,” Alex draws back, but not before placing a wet, lingering kiss over the now puffy, reddened flesh. 

The hands on his head do not shove or restrain, instead they simply move with him, stroking Alex’s hair, massaging his scalp as he moves lower, letting his tongue trail down the line of Imhotep’s abdominals, letting his cheek rub against the line of dark hair which leads him down further to the large, full cock jutting proudly up from Imhotep’s groin. 

When Alex bumps into the organ with his chin Imhotep hisses and his fingers flex, just barely pushing the young man’s mouth towards his cock and Alex finds he doesn’t mind the encouragement. He finds he’s not afraid, not intimidated, not shy as he presses the bridge of his nose against the man’s prick, nuzzling it briefly like a cat before he lets his tongue loll out of his mouth and moves to taste the rigid flesh. 

He knows this is strange. He hasn’t done this in a long, long time. He has never trusted enough or been in love enough to try it willingly, but here it feels so natural, so easy to lick up the prominent veins that lead to the swollen head of Imhotep’s cock. It feels good to dip his tongue into the slit there, to taste the man, to wrap his lips around the tip and suck gently, to ride the unintentional buck of the larger man hips as he groans in pleasure. 

Alex curls his lips over his teeth and breathes deeply through his nose as he slowly slides his head down, reeling at the heady, masculine scent of his lover, the silky heat of his skin, the strength and patience of his hands. The cock in his mouth feels huge and he’s practically vibrating with pleasure, his own arousal a constant, throbbing heat between his thighs like he’s never felt before. The weight of it on his tongue is intense, the earthy, human flavor of it-

Above him Imhotep rumbles “That’s it, my beautiful prize-”

Alex shivers, and he could swear he closes his eyes but nothing goes black, instead his gaze is pulled inextricably upward and he meets Imhotep’s burning eyes on him. His hands are still a brace, a wall, a pillar of support where they cup the back of his head, not forcing, just holding, touching-

Below him a strong surge of Imhotep’s hips forces the rest of the large cock all the way into Alex’s mouth and to the back of his throat. 

He should panic, he thinks, this should be bad-

But he just swallows and swallows and swallows, moaning around the mouthful, the broad head slipping into his throat and he is shaking as above him Imhotep growls in pleasure. Alex’s own groin is so tight, wave after wave of pleasure surging through him despite the fact that no one has touched him. The pleasure is like a phantom, possessing him, compelling him, and he moans low and long, sucking hard and desperate at the length in his mouth and throat. 

Imhotep’s quiet praise devolves into soft cursing as Alex swallows again, somehow breathing easily in rhythm with the sharp, powerful thrusts of the man who’s now riding his mouth hard. The young man just braces his hands against Imhotep’s hips, desperate to hold on and not slip off, each surge of his partner’s pleasure like a surge of his own, each push to overfill his mouth like coming home. Alex moans around his mouthful, his own hips swiveling into empty air, his body hot and so tight it feels like he might split apart at any moment, like he might actually fucking burst-

A vicious cry rends itself from Imhotep’s throat, his hands for the first time become tight, restraining things over the back of Alex’s head and the young man nearly sobs in relief. He wants to be pressed here, to be held, to be contained as he swallows around the throbbing, surging prick in his mouth, feeling the scalding pour of Imhotep’s release down his throat. He breathes harshly through his nose and catches the scent, the flavor of the man’s seed, his sweat, his very essence which fills him, surrounds him, and Alex feels a shudder rip itself through his body as he gives up, he gives in, and he comes and comes and comes-


	7. Care Against Caution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex blushes and does laundry. Imhotep makes the bed and plots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still Alive. No excuses. My life is nuts but I still could have finished and posted this months ago. 
> 
> Dialogue heavy chapter but I have plans for some action coming up.

When Imhotep comes into his room in the evening he is immediately alarmed to find his prize missing and his bed stripped bare of its linens. For a moment a still sort of rage fills him. He is prepared to make someone truly _suffer_ for this when he hears a sloshing sound and a quiet curse from the bathroom in the corner of the room. 

His skin physically prickles with the sudden wash of relief. 

_’Of course, you old fool._ ’ He scolds himself. He has to just breathe for several moments to steady himself. 

He has two bowls of stew in his hands, and he moves to set them carefully on the bedside table before he turns and makes his way to the washroom door. It’s only slightly ajar, and he knocks once for courtesy’s sake before he lays one hand flat on the wood and pushes it open wider. He knows Alex must have heard him but the man seems stubbornly determined to ignore him, leaning heavily on the sink for support as he splashes something in the full basin. 

“Alexander?” There are questions on the tip of his tongue but the immediate flinch of Alex’s shoulders at the sound of Imhotep’s voice stills him. 

As the sloshing water stills the only sound which can be heard in the small, blue tiled room is the slow drip drip drip of water droplets as they fall from the from the soaking articles of clothing and bedding which have been scrubbed and hastily tossed over the side of the claw footed tub. 

Imhotep registers that Alex has apparently found the change of clothing Imhotep had intended to dress him in this evening and has already donned it. The loose linen shirt is a soft tan color this time, and the thin pants a dark brown. Though the priest can only see a sliver of the boy’s reflection in the mirror above the sink - the purpling bruises around his eye stand in painful contrast to his white skin - he can easily tell this new shirt has already been thoroughly dampened by the boy’s inexplicable enthusiasm for laundry. 

Cautiously Imhotep slips into the room, consciously leaving the door open behind them so as not to agitate the young man further. He keeps himself a pace behind Alex, not touching, but close enough that the boy can certainly sense his presence even if he will not look up to see the reflection of the two of them in the mirror. 

“ _Alex._ ” He says, as gently as he can and the boy flinches again, though less sharply this time. 

“Didn’t feel clean.” The young man rasps out quietly after a moment, his voice a bit hoarse. His shoulders are up near his ears and Imhotep carefully reigns in an urge to sigh.

_‘I’m not angry, precious one.’_ He thinks to himself, for he feels the words will not be appreciated should he speak them aloud.

The relief of realizing Alex has not in fact successfully fled is still prickling at Imhotep’s skin. He takes care to think thoroughly before he speaks, worried he may say the wrong thing and end up closing the boy off from him for the whole night. 

“There are fresh linens in the other room. Come, these will keep for now.” He makes an effort to not sound too forceful, but he will admit such a feat is difficult for him. He is used to being obeyed. 

Alex just breathes. Imhotep watches as his fingers tighten and release the rim of the sink, knuckles almost white enough to match the porcelain. 

“Yeah, alright.” He acquiesces at length, turning from the sink to face Imhotep. 

His bruised eyes raise to meet the elder’s, and though he is radiating discomfort he doesn’t seem to be afraid. He is not cowed here in Imhotep’s presence. The older man silently preens. 

He says no more, simply shifting his body back so he may allow Alex to pass, his arm extended as a gentle guide back towards the room. 

Alex holds his gaze a moment longer before sighing and moving past him. His body comes so very close to touching Imhotep’s, there being little enough room to maneuver in the small washroom, but he does not. Imhotep contents himself with the fleeting impression of warmth as he glides by.

Although impeded some by his injuries, Alex seems to be walking again with his habitual bravado. While Imhotep watches the boy raises one hand like he may press it into his injured side, but at the last moment he drops it. 

“Where are they, then?” He asks roughly, turning to look at Imhotep, who has yet to move from the washroom doorway.

“In the blue chest.” Imhotep replies, immediately regretting it as Alex turns and makes tracks for the sheets. 

“No.” The elder announces sharply, causing Alex to freeze and draw himself up short of his target. 

Imhotep moves up behind him and places one hand lightly on his shoulder. “I will deal with the bed. You will sit.”

Alex doesn’t say anything as Imhotep carefully propels him towards the chair which still faces the bed from their shared meal that morning.

The young man lowers himself into the seat gingerly, but without complaint. He is not looking at Imhotep now, a flush to his cheeks and his eyes firmly trained on the floor. 

Imhotep traps a sigh behind a brief clenching of his jaw. 

Alex had seemed to be improving, but this new bout of strange, taciturn behaviour is disheartening. 

Imhotep steels himself to a less pleasurable evening than he’d hoped. 

He can be a patient man when he needs to be. 

He picks up one of the servings of stew - warm but not scalding - from the side table. Stirring the broth once releases a thin curl of steam which rises from the surface. The pale vapor leaves a wispy trail as Imhotep leans over to move the bowl in front of Alex’s face. 

Alex reaches up to take the offering in what looks like an automatic gesture, but his grip is steady.

When Imhotep is certain Alex will not drop his meal he straightens and turns towards the aforementioned chests to see to the linens. He has several sets of sheets here, all of finest quality and tucked neatly away. 

Although he has several servants who see to certain chores in this complex, there are many things he will not allow them to do. For one thing, they are never to enter his inner domain. No one is. He will bring his laundry to the head of the stairs twice a week and the servants will be waiting to take it away. They know to have it returned by sundown the same evening, and Imhotep will return it to his rooms from there. 

He has heard them gossip on occasion of what may lie down this dark and forbidding corridor. The servants at least have an understanding that he is mortal, seeing to his basic needs like his laundry and his food, but many of the others who serve are not so sure. There are rumors that at the end of this tunnel lies an entry to another realm, where pharaohs still reign and Imhotep has the ears of the gods themselves. Some say it is a tomb, and he lays his head to rest in a sarcophagus each night like the mummy he once was. 

The stories of his exploits are likewise varied and fanciful. Some have connected his name to the great undead horror who plagued Egypt ten years past, while others refuse to believe such talk. Even those who doubt that he is _the_ Imhotep still attribute strange rituals and horrific encounters to his past. He is careful to not disabuse them of these notions. This mystery is the key to his power, after all, and as long as he keeps them guessing the machine of their curiosity will continue to churn unaided. 

It has been strange though to grow accustomed again to managing such mundane things as dusting and dressing the bed. Even before he was mummified he was a priest of extraordinary prestige and clout. One would have been as likely to find him sweeping the sand from his floors as bringing in the harvest. It’s not like these chores are difficult to do, but they are unfamiliar. 

He still finds himself on occasion amused by it all. He cannot help but imagine Alex is similarly surprised to see him behaving so domestically. 

Tamping down on a smile, he pulls out a fresh set of white linens and sets to his task.

It is short work and when he has finished he straightens from the newly dressed bed and turns back to Alex. 

The young man is half finished with his stew, his hunger apparent, and Imhotep regrets not bringing him a noon meal. He had hoped that in leaving Alex alone he would be more likely to rest, but he seems to have miscalculated and left his charge hungry. 

None of his guilt shows on his face however as he settles himself on the edge of the mattress and reaches out to take up the second bowl for himself. 

It is simpler fare than he usually has the cook prepare, but he wishes to keep things easy and hearty for Alex. It pleases him that the food seems to agree with the boy, and he tucks into his own dish silently, tempering his short pang of guilt with satisfaction. 

They eat in a silence which, if not comfortable, is at least not too terribly strained. 

\----

The sun sets on the opposite side of the building from their solitary window, and the shadows are long and cool within the room. 

Alex feels too drained now to be mortified, but the chill is still pleasant on skin which burned with embarrassment an hour ago. 

For fuck’s sake, he’d come in his sleep like he was thirteen again and just realizing what his dick was fully capable of. Holy hell. _Holy hell._

The spoon rasps harshly against the bottom of his bowl as he scoops up one of the last few swallows of the stew. He shoves the food in his mouth like it offends him to even look at it, knowing that he has that furious look of frustration on his face that he gets from his father. 

Stupid body. Stupid dream. Stupid bloody Imhotep. 

His ribs are really smarting too from all that time on his feet, scrubbing to get any and all traces of his shame out of the sheets. A bit of mania, he supposes, but he feels like he’s entitled to a touch of madness. This whole situation is mad. 

Damnit. 

Alex manages to finish his dinner without resorting to any sort of violence - the slop is good, in spite of everything, and he’s _hungry_ \- and he settles back into his chair begrudgingly. At least it feels good on his ribs to sit up like this with some support. It’s still a profound ache but more like the stretch of an abused muscle and less like he’s getting jabbed in the side with a hot poker. The bowl ends up in the vee of his legs, his fingers loosely clinging to the ceramic.

Imhotep has not finished his own meal but he lowers his bowl to rest in his lap while he meets Alex’s eye. 

The younger refuses to flush. He resolves to scowl less and look a little more resigned if he can help it. 

This man already knows far too much about him. Best to keep his feelings to himself. 

“So good of you to feed me.” Alex blurts out before he can help himself. He doesn’t really mean to be sarcastic but the statement sounds tart even to his own ears. 

Imhotep frowns and spares a glance down at his half-finished food before leaning forward to swap the bowl in Alex’s lap for the one in his own. 

“I didn’t mean-”

“Eat.” The man orders, not harshly but in such a way as Alex doesn’t feel like it’s wise to argue. 

Not that he really wants to. It’s just he feels like he should. Protest, that is. Except he’s really quite hungry. 

Damnit.

Deciding to favor practicality over pride Alex keeps his words to himself and digs into the remnants of Imhotep’s meal for himself. 

Imhotep watches him with his customary intensity for a few moments before he stands and walks across the room towards the fireplace, depositing the empty bowl in his hand on the side table next to the room’s other chair on his way. 

Alex has to crane his neck to look over his shoulder, keeping his eye on his captor, but the man has simply knelt down next to the fire place and has begun to stack kindling and wood in the grate. With a defeated sigh Alex slumps his shoulders and returns to Imhotep’s bowl. 

He never starved in Imhotep’s ‘care’ all those years ago, but he can’t remember eating particularly well. It was travel food that sustained them. Dried meat, bread, lentils, some fruit if he was lucky. This however has the appeal of a home cooked meal, something prepared with care and seasoned to be pleasant instead of simply palatable. Alex wonders if Imhotep made it himself. He certainly appears to be quite the homemaker. 

It’s disquieting, to see him like this. Not like a god or a monster, but a man. Just a man. 

It’s hard to remember that he was once capable of summoning sandstorms and was dead set on human sacrifice to raise up unspeakable power, to stand supreme before the breaking of the world-

He can smell the faint wafting of smoke as the fire begins to catch. There’s the sound of deep breaths coming in and out as Imhotep stokes the beginnings of a flame. 

Alex scrapes up the last of his meal and sets the bowl down in his lap with a deliberate sigh. 

“So what are you now?” He asks quietly after a few more minutes of silence. He’s been thinking about it all day, weighing the value of a truthful answer and he’s found he wants it. He needs to know. “You said you were mortal but that seems like a bit of a stretch. What is this now, your fourth go around? Most of us mortals don’t get that many do overs.”

A deep hum comes from behind him and Alex hears the man rise to his feet. He manages not to flinch when a tanned arm appears in his line of sight, reaching over his shoulder to pick up his dishes and carry them over to stack with his own. 

“I have not lied to you, Alexander. I am mortal now, as best as I can figure without truly testing this assertion. I have aged in these ten years, can you not tell? When I was first condemned I was not yet a man of thirty. I have now gained many of the lines and marks I would expect of someone approaching their fourth decade.” As he speaks, Imhotep walks back over to the mattress and settles himself on the edge, leaning forward to bring his face within inches of Alex and the man braces himself to not withdraw. 

The older man simply holds his gaze steady and Alex’s heart accelerates. Imhotep has powerful eyes. It’s not the first time Alex has thought this, though he does not like to readily acknowledge it. They are a deep brown but somehow they’re cold, almost gray-black when struck by sunlight, lacking in comfort and warmth. 

From the corners of those eyes Alex counts the creasing of crows feet just beginning to be cut in, the furrow of frown lines which mar his brow. He has the shadows under his eyes of a man who works more than he sleeps, and though his skin is yet firm and even it has begun to gain the weathered quality of a man who spends most of his days beneath a desert sun. 

“You’ve grown as well, I see. No longer the incautious youth, but a bold young man.” 

Alex is so focused on watching those full lips move in speech that he almost forgets to listen to the words. He’s a beat late with his frown. 

“No longer to your tastes, I suppose.” He clips acidly and Imhotep leans back allowing Alex the opportunity to breathe again.

“Quite the opposite. Your worldly experience only adds to your appeal.”

Alex does not like the sound of this and he flushes with a glare. 

“So you age, but that doesn’t make you human. Are you still an unholy monster? Still stealing organs? What great apocalyptic plans are unfolding now?”

Imhotep frowns. “I have spoken to you about this already, in our last meeting ten years ago. Do you not recall?”

That dream, right. Alex furrows his brow as he tries to recall the words they exchanged. Funny, he’s spent so many years endeavoring to forget the images and actions of that night, but it’s the words which have left him. 

“No. I don’t remember anything.” He lies easily enough and Imhotep nods. Alex can’t help but feel like the man looks a little bit disappointed. “I thought it was just a dream.”

“It was more than just a dream, it was a meeting of souls in a place out of time forged for us by the gods themselves. I sought your forgiveness there, dear Alexander. You also mocked me then for my many second chances, and I will tell you what I told you that night: my fate is out of my hands. It was not I who made the decision to return to life, though I am glad of the boon. I was as surprised to wake up as you were to find me here.” 

A slow smile crawls across Imhotep’s lips. Alex can recall many of the man’s smiles but its strange to see them like this. They’re warmer, like sunlight after a cold night, and no longer so narrow and sharp. 

“Did I forgive you?” Alex asks, genuinely uncertain about what he said back then. He’s not even sure he wants an answer but curiosity has always been his downfall.

The upwards curl of Imhotep’s mouth falters. “No.”

“Good” Alex declares, relieved at his past, spectral self’s good sense. “I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you.” He says more quietly. He’s not a vicious person by nature but when Imhotep allows for this vulnerability all the hurt parts of Alex’s soul clamor to drive the knife in deeper, to delve into the tender parts of him and to _twist_ -

“I understand.” Imhotep replies and Alex is nonplussed by the lack of emotion in his tone. He can’t tell if he’s trying to hide something or if he’s truly resigned and that makes him wary. 

He swallows. “So you really have no plans then? You expect me to believe that?”

Imhotep lifts his shoulder to give the barest impression of a shrug. “Of course I have plans my young friend. It was simply this latest return to life that I had not planned for. This would have been an empty decade indeed if I had spent my days in aimless wallowing.”

“Perhaps you should have spent those days in penance.” He bites back. 

Imhotep raises a single brow in reply and smirks. “The only actions I owe penance for are the wrongs I have done to you. With your fortuitous arrival I can now make these amends. There is an elegance to these events which I could not have predicted, but which pleases me greatly. I am most glad you are here.”

Alex opens his mouth to protest, to assert that the best way to pay down his debt would be to _let Alex go_ but before the words come out Imhotep shifts to sit up straighter and nods once as if to slice off the end of that conversation and begin a fresh one. 

“We must see to your dressings.”

“I am dressed.” Alex mutters obtusely, picking at his still slightly damp shirt, and Imhotep is careful to not find the brat amusing.

“Your eagerness to clean may well have worsened your injuries. I will see to them now, to make sure you are still mending.”

Imhotep is apparently not taking no for an answer. With a put upon sigh Alex gingerly shrugs off his top and submits to the deft hands which unfasten and begin to unwind the lengths of linen binding his chest. 

Alex takes a moment to contemplate these latest revelations. 

Though there is nothing simple about this man and his desires, Alex is just about willing the believe in the simplicity of his explanation of his return. 

‘It just happened.’ Is too unimaginative, too lacking in drama to be the sort of lie Imhotep would come up with. The man is larger than life, bigger than mortal measure and if he had had his druthers Alex can only begin to imagine the thunder and lightning that would have heralded his triumphant return. Alex has spent more than enough time blundering his way through the webs of intrigue and magic which thread their secretive way through this world to ever doubt that there are forces beyond his reckoning: Forces with more than enough power to return Imhotep to the land of the living. He wonders mostly what favor Imhotep has managed to win from them in order to earn his latest reprieve, or perhaps what horrible task they wish to spend him on. 

He doesn’t get as far in his musings as he would like. The work of Imhotep’s hands grounds him inescapably in the physical moment, a distraction he cannot ignore.

Any contact with the man is fleeting, his fingers clinical as they work. Yet when the back of his hand brushes a nipple Alex has to fight not to tense. When his fingernails tickle the skin over his ribs he grits his teeth and tries to bear the indignity. He can’t help but be entirely honed in on it, laser focused on the little touches. Each time Imhotep reaches behind him to unwind the linen over his back he leans so very close to him, his head tilted to the side that Alex is just _there_ , just in the right spot that he could lean forward and bury his face in that familiar neck-

His mind reels and he swallows hard. His abused body aches from holding himself so still, his ribs complaining as he tries to lift his arm to help Imhotep with his task. He hisses sharply between his teeth, trying to get himself under control.

“Am I hurting you?” Imhotep murmurs so close to Alex’s ear that he jumps and promptly hates himself for it. 

He manages to grunt something negating and really he just wants Imhotep to hurry up and be done with it. The warm points of his finger tips pause at his spine, just barely pressing on the bone in such a fleeting fashion that it might be an accident. Alex’s toes curl against the edge of the carpet. 

After a small eternity there is a pile of used linen next to Imhotep on the mattress and Alex’s purpled body is on full display. Little dots of red have spread out under his skin, blossoming like sick stars against the black and blue. Alex cranes his neck to study them dispassionately, eyes tracing them like constellations. 

Imhotep makes a tsking sound and Alex rolls his eyes, too reminded of his mother’s disapproval.

“This is not ideal.” His self-appointed caretaker chides. 

“Couldn’t agree with you more.” The young man snarks back. He doesn’t look up so he doesn’t catch the tiny quirk of Imhotep’s lips at the impudence. 

“Be still. I will return in a moment.”

Alex pulls his eyes away from trying to determine if the shape of his bruises reminds him of the Horn of Africa or of Italy or the Florida coast. He watches Imhotep as he returns to the bathroom, a bubble of humiliated fear threatening him as he wonders if Imhotep will be able to figure out just why he was scrubbing all the bed clothes-

After a few minutes rustling and clattering the large man returns carrying a tray with a fresh roll of bandages, a couple cloths, a small bowl, and a blue glass apothecary bottle. 

“What’s that?” Alex demands as Imhotep seats himself on the edge of the mattress once more. 

“A simple liniment. It will reduce swelling and pain and promote faster healing.” Imhotep’s face is calm and dispassionate as he picks up the first of the cloths and wets it with water in the bowl. He doesn’t ask permission before leaning in to begin wiping away sweat and the remnants of old medicine from Alex’s body. The broad hand which is free helps itself to the healthier skin on the other side of Alex’s chest, laying flat over the flesh to keep the body still under his ministrations. 

The water is warm which is a blessing, but after the first careful strokes Imhotep presses deeper to scour some filth he perceives on Alex’s flesh and the boy can’t help himself, he gasps at the sharp swipe of pain which assails him.

“Stings.” Is his concession, and he hisses it reluctantly through clenched teeth. 

\---

When the small noise of pain escapes his charge, Imhotep immediately stops what he is doing and lets up on the pressure of the cloth. In his free hand he holds the shape of Alex’s ribcage beneath his palm. It is tantalizing, to feel this skin, the rise and dip of his bones, the flex of muscle and tendon, the pulse of his blood, but to know any meaningful physical contact with the boy is yet off limits. It is a horrifically beautiful thing, to feel the heat of him, the flutter of his heart, but to be barred from truly expressing his affection.

“My apologies.” Imhotep offers solemnly, and holds still for another achingly long moment before he resumes his ministrations, gentler now. Slower. If this is to be all the contact he is to have for tonight he will draw it out. Cherish it. Let it sustain him in the days of waiting which will come. Let it comfort him.

It does comfort him, the reassuring proof of his physical presence here, in Imhotep’s fortress, in his room, in his bed. 

He feels disquieted at the young man’s earlier line of questioning. He is realistic about the fact that the courting of his prize will not be easy, but he had hoped that Alex had remembered and cherished their final encounter for the beautiful treasure that it was; a jewel glittering in the midst of the swirling, biting sand that was the rest of their romancing. 

Imhotep has spent ten years endeavoring to allow his love for the boy to dwell firmly in his past, but at the same time he has allowed all his memories of all their encounters to be sweetened by the strains of their glorious farewell to one another. In that dream, that place out of time, he had loved the young man as he should have from the start. 

It had been an eternity for him, wandering listlessly in the underworld until some unseen hand opened a door which led to that room, that bed, that altar where he was allowed to sacrifice his pride and make new offerings to the young man he had so wronged. 

And he did wrong him. He makes no claims against this fact. 

But in the end had he not looked within and reflected on his conduct and found himself wanting? In the end had he not sought to make right his past mistakes? He had laid himself low before his prize, he had bound himself at the boy’s feet and presented himself as a power wholly devoted to this child of his enemy. This wicked, tempting, glorious young man. His prize. His Alexander. 

Is this baring of his soul not enough? This breaking of his pride, this unconditional offering of his love?

Imhotep is careful to keep these swirling thoughts from twisting his expression, not wanting to spook the creature he has just barely begun to tame. 

If Alex looks back on their time together with nothing but hatred it will be more difficult than he had supposed to seduce him, but it will not be impossible. Imhotep knows he did not imagine the lust in those defiant eyes, the sentiment, the dogged respect and even affection which was meant for him and only him. It will be a challenge, but he has always enjoyed a battle of wills, the victory in the end tastes all the sweeter.

Alex’s face has relaxed, his eyes distant as he withdraws inside himself. Imhotep watches the slow blinks, the sweeps of his thick, dark lashes obscuring those lovely blue eyes. His hair is in need of a good washing, this morning’s ‘shower’ not enough to clean the messy tresses, but Imhotep enjoys the way they tangle over the young man’s brow and cover the tips of his ears. The color has darkened with age but where the sun has beaten down the hardest there are still flashes of that lovely gold he remembers from when the man was a teenager.

Imhotep smiles. 

“Other than your desire to clean my sheets, how have you occupied yourself today?” Imhotep murmurs the question lowly so as not to startle the young man but Alex jerks his neck to turn and face him all the same. Beneath the hand still bracing the young man’s ribs, Imhotep feels the heart quicken its beating.

“I slept most of the day.” Alex admits reluctantly. His eyes shift away from Imhotep as he says it, as if it is something to be ashamed of. “I contemplated my next plan of escape while I was awake. And I imagined how my father will beat the tar out of you again when he finds you.”

This startles a mild laugh out of Imhotep and he could swear that Alex seems to fight down the smirk which wants to twist his own lips.

Imhotep finishes wiping clean the young man’s ribs and reaches for the next cloth and the liniment as he quiets down his mirth. “Such an admirable quality in a young man, this enduring faith in the father. Such loyalty seems rare in the modern age.”

Alex makes a face, watching Imhotep’s hands closely as he douses the cloth in the thin, fragrant medicine. “You make it sound weird when you put it like that.”

Imhotep is caught up in another impulsive smile and he reaches out to begin rubbing the lotion onto the boy’s skin. Alex jerks at first for the mixture does go on quite cool, but after a moment he relaxes into the soft stroke of the cotton over his skin. 

_‘Good.’_ Imhotep thinks quietly. _‘Find pleasure.’_

Alex’s eyes droop closed as he feels the oils and tinctures penetrate the skin and work on the flesh below, healing damage and cooling enflamed nerves. It seems to be against his will that a shiver runs down his spine and Imhotep can’t help himself as the fingertips of his free hand just lightly pet the skin beneath them. 

“Does it hurt?” Imhotep goads, knowing it does not, and something in his tone must give him away because Alex’s eyes snap open and he simply pins his caretaker with a look of disdain before turning his eyes way to stare resolutely at one of Imhotep’s many bookshelves. 

The former priest contents himself with the surety that the sensations coursing through his prize’s flesh are quite pleasant. He finishes applying the medicine before returning both bottle and cloth to the tray and picking up the new length of bandages. 

“I must compress your ribs for this to be effective. It will be painful.” Alex doesn’t look away from the bookshelf, a bored expression plastered across his features as he nods in absent acknowledgment. 

To his credit he does not flinch as the linen is unrolled and wrapped again and again and again around pale flesh, obscuring him from nipple to navel in a way that is unsurprisingly familiar to Imhotep’s hands. 

When he has finished he wipes his fingers off on one of the cloths before collecting the old bandages still sitting next to him and placing them on the tray. He then rises and returns the lot to the bathroom. He carefully restores everything to its appointed place before he gathers the soiled cloths and the still wet sheets draped around the room and places them all in the woven hamper which he uses to transport his laundry. The servants will collect it tomorrow, it won’t matter if they sit wet for an evening. After a moment’s hesitation he also chooses to remove his shoes, pulling off his socks and adding them to the washing. He carries the shoes in his hand back into the main room. 

“Never thought I’d see you doing your own washing.” Alex taunts. Imhotep places his shoes down next to the door to the hall. When he straightens he turns to stare down his nose at the young man. 

“Nor shall you. I have servants who handle those tasks.”

“I haven’t seen anyone else in here.” Alex counters. He’s not even looking at Imhotep, seated as he is in the arm chair facing the bed. Imhotep isn’t certain why he finds the commentary irritating. 

“I handle the care of these quarters myself.” He explains after a moment’s hesitation. “Do not act so shocked. I was not born wealthy and admired, I am no Pharoah’s favored get. There are many basic skills I possess but do not use because I do not need to. It is not because I am incapable or that I find the acts beneath me.”

As he speaks he comes around to stand in front of Alex. Without words he bends down enough to reach out and wrap his hands gently around Alex’s upper arms, urging him to stand and helping support him as he shifts his aching body. 

“I just assumed anything other than homicide and fits of megalomania were beneath you.” There’s a mocking quality to his voice as Alex manages to huff the words out. He follows Imhotep’s silent guidance gingerly, stepping to the mattress and lowering himself to sit on the fresh sheets. 

“Which proves only that you know very little about me” is Imhotep’s mild reply, but Alex will not leave it.

“I know enough.” Alex scowls and Imhotep does not counter, feeling any further argument would only push Alex further into a disagreeable state. 

He did not rise as far as he did in the courts and intrigue of Old Egypt without some political wherewithal. 

“Lay down.” He commands quietly but with a tone which will broker no dissent. Alex doesn’t even put up a token argument as Imhotep helps him settle amongst the cushions. He must be tired. Imhotep will have to take care to persuade him to take the time to actually _rest_ tomorrow.

Such a difficult creature. 

Straightening up Imhotep begins to undo the buttons of his shirt. In the last decade he has grown accustomed to western style dress and the advantages such attire can bring him. That is not to say that he is fond of these clothes. The fastenings are too numerous, the fabrics too stiff, but he manages. He’s parted the sides of his shirt and is shrugging the cotton from his shoulders before Alex begins sputtering in protest from the bed.

“What the hell are you doing?” Is the boy’s demand and Imhotep says nothing at first, carefully hanging his shirt off the back of the chair still facing the fire so it will not wrinkle. 

“It grows late.” He explains after a moment. “-and I have not slept the last two nights while laboring to secure your safety. I am going to sleep.”

“Here?” Alex, precious Alex, his voice goes a pitch or two higher in distress and Imhotep feels a pang of hunger for his dear prize. 

“These are my rooms, little one.” He murmurs slowly, gently, and Alex scowls.

“Don’t call me that.” he snarls from where he’s pushed himself to the corner of the mattress furthest from Imhotep, his back now to a wall. 

Imhotep inclines his head differentially but says nothing as he deftly removes his pants and straightens to stand naked and unashamed before the young man. He does not wear small clothes, he does not find them comfortable, and the sudden appearance of his cock seems to afflict Alex with an acute paralysis. His face first flushes bright red then pales with alarming rapidity. 

Imhotep folds his trousers in half and drapes them over his shirt. Usually he has a more rigid sense of order around the treatment of his clothing but he is extremely tired. His mortal body has its limits, and he wants to sleep. He walks over to his chest of drawers, deliberately ignoring the room’s other occupant as he acquires a loose khaftan he wears on occasions when his affairs in the desert require his personal attention. He prefers to sleep in the nude when he is in these rooms, but this article is soft and loose enough to be tolerable- for Alex’s sake. 

When he turns back to face his prize with the most threatening aspects of his anatomy now tucked away he finds Alex has regained his color and is flushing a most becoming shade of pink. 

“You can’t honestly mean to share a bed.” He protests with a voice gone hoarse.

“I do.” 

“So much for honorable intentions.” The young man snarls, curling his upper lip in his anger, gearing up to fight but Imhotep merely approaches the bed calmly, inexorably. The measure and pace of his footfalls make him seem like an unstoppable force, his will as an act of nature, impossible to contradict. 

“Tonight we will only be sleeping, young O’Connell. I have already given you my word I will not assail you with unwanted affections.”

“and tomorrow?”

Imhotep’s eyes glitter with unshared plots. “Each day brings new challenges and with them, new rewards.” 

\---

Alex is not pleased by this new development. He had almost started to let his guard down. Foolish.

No mask of kindness can hide the monster in front of him. He must remember this.

As Imhotep comes up alongside the bed he draws back the covers and Alex attempts to phase through the solid wall behind him, pressing back and away as hard as his injured body will allow him. 

Imhotep appears to ignore him. 

Alex is acutely aware of the cool draft which teases his legs and the parts of his belly not swathed in bandages. As Imhotep shifts his legs up onto the bed the push and drag of the air changes, the sheets which cover them both clutch at his flesh at the will of Imhotep’s adjustments. 

Alex’s heart races. His skin feels tight and clammy.

The sheer size of this man is as terrifying as he remembers it. Even grown as he is now the massive bulk of Imhotep as he lays himself down next to Alex is daunting. So close but not quite touching, Alex could almost swear he feels the man’s massive heart beating so hard it shakes them both. 

Good god. He’s in bed with Imhotep, the last plague of Egypt, his family’s greatest nemesis, the father of his worst nightmares. He feels a little like he’s going to throw up. 

Then with a deep exhale the former mummy turns onto his side and puts his back to Alex, not once looking at him, not once reaching out to draw him in and pin him down and smother him. When he turns down the lamp on the bedside table he leaves only the fire to light the room, the sun having long disappeared from the sky.

“Sleep, Alexander.” He commands. “No harm will come to you in this bed.”

Alex does not believe him, but as the seconds tick by and become minutes which stretch towards hours Alex can’t help himself. His eyelids droop and his back looses its tension. His body slips down the bed, and he rests on his uninjured side, back still pressed to the wall so he can keep an eye on the lion who lays with him. A reluctant sleep takes him well before the threat of dawn approaches, and in the dark of the dying fire Imhotep smiles.


	8. The Ebb and the Flow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex heals and tries not to get excited, Imhotep plots and tries not to get shmoopy, and Ardeth drinks coffee and tries not to get nervous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy. It's really unlikely I'll be able to continue this pace of posting a chapter a week since I wrote most of this one and the last one while I was on vacation, but I'm gonna keep on plugging along. 
> 
> There's a little more action in this section, there will be lot more action in the next. 
> 
> Your comments give me life <3

Two merchants bow lowly as they back out of the room. One man’s fez threatens to tip right off his head his nose is so near to the decadent Turkish carpet beneath his feet. His partner clutches at the papers Imhotep has just given them, an approval to move some curios of minimal value from one of their desert stockpiles to their dock warehouse in Alexandria where they will await transfer to France. There is little excitement in such objects but money is an unfortunate necessity in maintaining his power and they will fetch a decent price from the ignorant elite in Europe. 

Imhotep watches them all the way out the door and into the hall, not bothering to hide is disdain. He’s seated regally in his desk chair, back straight and head angled like he’s ruling over a grand court and not giving out petty assignments to keep the gears of his empire churning. 

So far it has been a very long morning filled with mundane tasks which still require his attention and approval. The busywork is unfortunate, but he endures. While it has taken hours he is finally finished with his long list of petty meetings and tasks, and with silent sigh of relief he switches himself from matters of money to matters of personnel. His expression hardens. 

“Haddad.” He calls and from a second door a broad man of dark complexion slides from the shadows. 

This man doesn’t say anything, does not flinch when Imhotep turns the full power of his glare on him. The former priest is reminded again why he so enjoys having this man in his employ. 

“I trust our personnel issues have been properly sorted.”

The man nods slowly. “Our ranks have been tightened after they were necessarily thinned, my lord, but our operations regarding both Port Said and the western desert have been completed according to schedule. Your recruiters have been slowly acquiring new men to restock our numbers.” He has an incredibly deep voice but he speaks softly. 

Imhotep nods as he takes in his report. 

“I gave you quite a list of tasks, are they now completed?”

“Yes sir.” He nods once to emphasize. “Jaleel gave me some trouble, but as of tonight all those you have judged and found wanting have been accounted for. I have two men searching for ears which were troubled with loose talk, but as of yet I see no cause for concern. Only caution.”

“As always.” Imhotep murmurs in quiet approval. “You’ve done well then. Your service is appreciated.”

“Thank you my lord.” The executioner rumbles, pleased. 

Imhotep rarely calls on him for simple tasks, preferring to keep his best man in the shadows as little more than a nightmare rumored to be at his disposal. He has many thugs of ill repute and dangerous dispositions which he may spend at will, and most of his orders are simple enough to obey, but Haddad is a special weapon. 

He’s smart, efficient, and most importantly, he is not ambitious. It is a fortuitous combination which Imhotep is all too glad to have on hand. The man is elegant and merciless at his work and takes pride in being thorough. 

Imhotep had found him serving as lieutenant to a less deserving master when he’d begun taking his first steps towards bringing the black market to heel. He’d thought to kill him initially, clearing the way for a new and more glorious reign, but the man had been intriguing. Imhotep had spared him. 

It was a gamble, but it has paid well. Haddad has been able to serve as both his assassin of choice and a leader to the small cadre of warriors and guards which Imhotep employs for specialized tasks.

“Tell me of our new doormen.” Imhotep presses. Dubiously moral guards have been rotating regularly in and out of the position and he trusts them little. The sort of security he has previously employed in his fortress has been more than adequate for his needs, but things have changed. 

The pace of these changes is rushed compared to his carefully plotted timelines, but it cannot be helped. The reigns must be tightened and the heard must be cultivated with a bit more care. Where growth has sustained them these past ten years, it is time now to temper expansion with reliability. 

Haddad nods slowly. “I have hired three. Asam, 29. Married to his second wife, five children between the two women. He was in the army but was discharged for an incident involving British sailors. He is not known for unprompted violence, but is a decent boxer with an intimidating stature. 

“Kadar, 17. Unmarried. Though untested he has been well vouched for and I have determined him to be of even temperament. He is an avid sportsman and is taking to hand to hand combat training well. He seems to favor knives and short blades. He will be watched closely to see if he adapts to our ways.

“And there is Bishr, whom you know well.” Imhotep nods at that, having already favored the older, exiled bedouin for years of loyal service. The man would do well with a more stable position. 

“A fourth?”

“You did say to take only the best.” 

“I did. I have faith you will yet succeed.”

There’s a moment’s pause. A fire burns lowly in the hearth for it is mid afternoon and he has little need for the warmth. The windows are covered with heavy wooden shutters and mere slivers of sun are allowed to slip through. Imhotep contemplates the patterns of light on his rugs for a spell before he lifts his gaze to his lieutenant with a serious frown. 

“The O’Connells?” It’s been more than a week since Alex’s arrival and Imhotep is loathe to admit he feels anxious in regards to the continued absence of a rescue party. His power, though formidable, is no longer the cosmic force it once was. He feels uneasy not knowing where to find his enemy. Though it burns to admit it, Rick O’Connell will be an even more challenging foe without the advantage of godliness. The man knows the shadows of this city well. 

“Nothing, my lord. You have six men watching the docks and our museum contacts are assuring us that the librarian has made no effort to contact them yet.”

Imhotep nods, not consoled, and warns “Stay alert. They are deceptively clever foes and have friends in many quarters.”

“Understood, sir.”

Briefing concluded Imhotep waves his hand to dismiss the man and watches as he leaves out the same door the merchants did, due for some business outside the fortress no doubt. 

Immediately Imhotep turns to the papers he still has in front of him, hand written reports from various lackeys and leaders in his organization. They talk of supplies and demands, profits and losses, morale and conflict. They talk of permits purchased with coercion and the thin layers of legal language they have stretched like veil around their illicit activities. They talk of local governors who have to be assuaged or eliminated, of smugglers raising their prices, and academics who have grown suspicious. 

It ranges from intriguing to mind numbingly dull and Imhotep has been reading and writing edicts since breaking his fast with Alex. His hands are reluctant to take up his pen yet again to scold an underperforming underling. With a deeper frown he pauses before deciding he is more than finished for the day and begins to stack the papers together in the appropriate order and slipping them into a locking drawer of his desk. As the tumblers fall into place he allows his jaw to loosen and he twists his neck enough to release a satisfying pop from his spine. 

He has never been overly fond of administrative work. His duties as a priest had generally kept him active and moving, overseeing ceremonies and sacrifices, praying over offerings, leading festivals, and attending to whatever tasks his Pharoah had asked of him. He is a decent scribe and more than capable of overseeing his vast web of an empire, but the sedentary nature of these tasks grates at him. 

He is due for an expedition. Something which will take him deep into the desert in quest of a treasure forgotten and abandoned to the wear of time. Something bathed in mystery and power and legend. Something pretty. Something for Alex. 

His eyes narrow and he reaches to a different drawer in his desk, unlocking it and pulling out a leather wrapped journal filled with ancient glyphs in his own steady script. His mind is already plotting what he will say to entice, to provoke, to ensnare-

Book in hand he rises from his desk and turns to the door behind him, producing the keys that will let him into the chambers beyond. 

Yes. Something for Alex. 

\---

In his irritatingly comfortable prison Alex stretches his legs out in front of him, his bare feet facing a cold grate, his brow furrowed as he glares at an offending passage in the book of Hebrew mythology in his lap. It’s never been his best language and he hasn’t gotten far in the text (though he’s certainly trying). His lips move around unfamiliar words, his fingers occasionally releasing the book to trace the shapes of letters into the soft green upholstery of his chair. 

He’s managed to talk Imhotep into letting him wear western style clothing, but the cuffs of both his light blue shirt and brown pants are rolled up several times. He’s so worried about exacerbating Alex’s healing injuries that he has only procured him articles which are, at best, a size and a half too large.

Whether the clothes are a factor or not Alex does have to admit that he’s feeling a lot better. The rib that he had thought broken appears to have just been cracked, the bruises in his side still large and colorful but not as dark as they were to begin with. The marks around his eye and his groin have faded to a sickly yellow green as well, a young body countering the abuse it’s endured as quickly as it’s able. 

Imhotep doesn’t say much in the evenings as he changes the dressings - he will accept no argument from Alex that he’s well enough to do this himself, damnit - but Alex can tell from the lessening of the deep furrow between his brows that his concern over his prisoner’s injuries has diminished. He’s even graciously granted Alex permission to move about the room while he is not there to assist, although he has been by regularly every day to check and make certain he has not managed to kill himself. 

And the nights, well, the nights have remained uneventful. 

Heaving a gusty sigh Alex shuts the book with a snap and drops it on top of his thighs, tilting his head back against the chair and rolling his jaw to stretch the lingering ache his injuries have left behind. 

Honestly its been a remarkably dull week. All the fear the sudden reappearance of his enemy produced has amounted to little. 

He sleeps. He reads. He eats. He plots his escape. He abandons his plots as ridiculous. 

The one window in these chambers is so high up in the wall that Alex needs to drag a piece of furniture across the room to simply peer out of it. Even after - painfully - hauling a chair over for a boost he’d been able to discern little. This complex must be built into a hill or something for while he feels like he’s below ground, the window looks out on the tops of neighboring buildings and a strip of blue sky. The wall the window is set in is old and incredibly thick, barring his view of the street. He’d need more of a boost to peer below and his ribs won’t currently allow it, but there is no noise which reaches him in the room, no change in light from the passing of bodies and vehicles outside. 

The chair now sits with its partner back in the middle of the room again. They both face the fireplace and Alex has spent the last two evenings reading there in silence alongside Imhotep, alternating between being fascinated by the many rare tomes on his shelves and being overcome by dreadful anticipation for when the former mummy will drop this pretense and all will turn to blood. 

Somehow they have managed to share a bed for the last four nights without consequence while following much the same pattern as the first. Imhotep, ever the exhibitionist, will shed his own clothes after he has seen Alex cleaned and dressed and settled amongst the sheets. The younger man will be forced to watch the elder reveal each contour of those miles of flesh, every dip and curve an unpleasant reminder of the past that they share. It’s a strip tease he could do without and Alex is firmly resolved to look away from Imhotep tonight and wrest control of the scene back to himself. 

Of course there has been some talk between them. It cannot be all bodily intimidation and ineffective snarling. Alex has asked for his freedom, Imhotep argues he is here for his protection. Alex has claimed he can take care of himself, Imhotep rehashes his incident with the doormen. Alex says he does not want to work for Imhotep, Imhotep considers their contract signed and sealed. 

A grimace twists Alex’s lips as he stares up at the white ceiling, eyes distractedly following the motions of the mason’s tools which have left their mark behind in the plaster. 

What kind of work is it then? For a moment, in the privacy of his own head and with Imhotep gone away, Alex allows himself to humor the man. If he is to be an employee in this vast criminal network, what is Imhotep to have him do?

Surely they have enough hands, enough minds, enough opinions between them. Alex is still a dissertation short of his PhD and certainly not imposing enough to inspire any great fear and loyalty in such coarse ranks. He knows his own worth but doubts very much those in Imhotep’s employ will recognize it. 

Even before it had been revealed that it was Imhotep pulling the strings Alex had known his admission to this collective would be a challenge. He had hoped only to start low and work his way onto the teams disappearing into the depths of desert wonders. He had no need to be the best or the brightest, he wanted only to be _there_.

Alex drums his fingers impatiently on the arms of the chair, crossing one ankle over the other before quickly uncrossing them again. 

Perhaps Imhotep intends to keep him here for ever: a pampered, coddled, cloistered thing. Alex makes a face in disgust, his heart thudding anxiously. He can picture it now, his captor bringing him trinkets to fondle and contemplate, soothing and numbing Alex’s pride by insisting his insight, his interpretation was needed. The worst of it is Alex isn’t even sure he wouldn’t start believing the condescension. He has never done well being still, being stagnant. Enough time in this room with Imhotep as his only connection to the outside world and Alex might just start believing anything. 

He has to get out of here. He just has to hold onto that. One way or the other he has to escape. 

As he hears the barely there scrape of Imhotep’s feet over the stone floor beyond the room he picks his head up and adopts the most bored expression he can muster, eyes staring dully towards the empty fireplace and mouth a slack sort of grimace. 

The key turns in the lock and in glides the master of the keep. “Forgive me, I did not mean to leave you alone this long.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Alex lies. They’d had a large breakfast and Imhotep had left him with the seconds to sustain him through the afternoon, but the hours have felt frustratingly in this isolation. 

“Are you hungry? If you wish I will retrieve our supper now.”

Alex shrugs. “Nope.” He pops the p in a way he hopes sounds disdainful but if the hit lands Imhotep does not let on. 

“Excellent.” The man rumbles, voice deepening as it does when something has pleased him and Alex’s leg twitches, his blood pumping a little faster. This is usually not a good sound. 

He’s half way to retracting his previous negation when Imhotep has already crossed the room and lowered himself into a crouch before his captive, head tilted forward so it’s practically in Alex’s lap, his eyes angled up to meet the young man’s affected stare. Other than their nightly first aid sessions Imhotep hasn’t been this quick to invade his personal space and Alex feels a cold wash of anxiety as he wonders if he’s testing the waters, if tonight is the night he finally-

“I have something to show you.” The man positively _croons_ and Alex is seized by a moment of hysterical humor over all the obscene actions which could follow that statement, each more ridiculous and alarming than the last-

Then he notices that Imhotep is carrying something in one hand, a leather wrapped journal which he carefully opens to a particular page. 

In spite of the warning bells signaling in his brain, Alex can’t help himself. He leans forward, putting his face even closer to his enemy’s, and looks hungrily into the text. 

\---

Far from Cairo in an unmapped stretch of the desert there are camels drinking from a clear pool in a small oasis. 

Amongst the few palms is a scattering of tents. Between them there are men and women in dark caftans and robes going about various chores, preparing food, mending clothing, smoking, drinking coffee and talking quietly to wait out the worst of the midday heat. 

Ardeth Bey walks among them, greeting his people with nods and easy words, checking in on matters which have been of concern and offering praise to those engaged in some useful task. 

The desert is calm today, a pleasant boon, and Ardeth enjoys the sun on his face and the light breeze blowing through the scraggly trees. 

His clothing has changed little in the last ten years, though his hair has taken on a distinctive gray streak. Several of the older women enjoy teasing him about it. They say all that business defeating great evil has taken its toll on his good looks. Ardeth does not take it too personally, he does not mind the lines around his eyes and his mouth, the scars that pepper is skin. They are all marks of experience, of survival. He’s more than fifty now and he is glad to have lived to see these days. Although he’s still nimble and quick with a blade, he’s not certain he could accomplish the same feats of daring do that he managed all those years ago.

There is still much work to do of course. Though the great mummy priest was vanquished, the Med-jai are guardians of a vast number of powerful artifacts. As long as these objects exist the world will yet be in need of him and his people. 

As Ardeth approaches a large tent on the edge of the settlement he nods to the young man seated before the entrance, studiously replacing the leather wrapping on a worn out dagger hilt. The man nods back, reaching out to lift the flap of the tent so the chief may more easily duck inside. 

As he steps through he lets his eyes close for a long moment to clear his sights of the Egyptian sun and acclimatize to the darker interior of the tent. 

When he opens them again he takes note of the three other men and one woman, all seated on cushions on the floor. There are thick rugs which cover the sand and hang from the walls of the tent, creating a close, warm space. In the middle of the floor is a small brazier with several smoldering coals. A pot of warming coffee waits on the grate above it. 

Ardeth nods to acknowledge them all before he steps forward and lowers himself to sit on a spare cushion left open for his use. 

As the man on his left pours him a drink Ardeth turns to the woman on his right and fixes her with a serious look. “What news do you bring me?” He asks lowly, accepting the coffee from the man with a brief flicker of his eyes in thanks. 

The woman is in her thirties. She has severe features and plain, dark clothing, but she is not without beauty. She sips her coffee for a moment as she readies her answer. 

“According to our sources the last remnants of Jaleel’s gang and The Dutchman’s operations have both been fully liquidated within the last week. The trickle of goods being bled from the eastern ruins has also entirely ceased to flow. Most of the dealers in Port Said have either vanished or have taken leave from their regular business practices. 

“I am still unable to get in touch with any of our sympathetic contacts in the Cairo underground. Even our friend at the museum will not meet with me or my representatives, although I am certain she is still alive and well.”

“It seems our crocodile is swimming faster. He is closing in on his quarry.” One of the men grunts into his own cup. He has a long scar which has left him blind in his right eye, and though it’s obscured by his clothing his left hand is short two fingers and a thumb, functioning as little more than a claw. 

A larger man with a neat beard frowns into the fire. “Perhaps he has already bitten and is dragging his prey down as we speak. Perhaps we are only coming upon him as he finishes his feast.”

“It’s hard to say.” Ardeth mediates, processing the news that has come from his spymaster. “We are still unclear as to this man’s ultimate goals.”

The scarred man grimaces and fixes Ardeth with a disapproving glare. “Money, power, glory- what else? What else do men like these desire?”

The last man in the room nudges the coffee pot uncomfortably. “We only injure ourselves if we limit our estimation of our enemy. I still believe it imprudent to jump to conclusions. We have only been following this man’s actions for a year-.”

“Bah, your are too timid!” The man’s claw hand makes an appearance as he points quite rudely the one who is disagreeing with him. “While we hesitate this shadow lord only grows in power. We must place one of our own within the crocodile’s numbers. We must poison the king from within his own court.”

“It is unnecessarily risky to embed one our own when we are yet so uncertain as to what we are fighting. We still hurt from the battle with Anubis’ army ten years past, we cannot afford to lose more warriors on an ill conceived ploy.”

“This man is a thug!” The scarred man declares, thumping a fist against the rug. “That is all we need to know. He is a, what do they call them, a mafioso. He is a runner of contraband, violent - a killer to be certain, a thief lord who profits off the rape of a great empire-”

At this the spymaster interrupts, her eyes flinty and cold. “We only have evidence so far of his involvement in the elimination of other criminal elements and his talents for establishing relationships with collectors and merchants of all tiers. So far he has not appeared interested in injuring civilians and the artifacts he has been acquiring-”

“Stealing.” The man barks. 

“-have not been those we are sworn to protect.” The woman finishes unfazed. “Yes, I grant you he is an undesirable sort, but I am not certain that his actions as of yet qualify him as a target for us. A cause for concern, certainly-”

“There are other rumors circling.” The larger man interjects cautiously, his fingers now stroking his beard, eyes still fixed on the small flame in the brazier. Silence falls amongst the bickering ranks and all faces turn towards him. 

“What rumors are these?” Ardeth prompts as he sets down his cup on the rug, the contents mostly untouched.

“Certain supplies have been purchased and inquiries have been made. There is evidence that an expedition will immanently venture to the west-”

“Where?” The scarred man pries, his one good eye narrowed suspiciously.

The larger man stops stroking his beard and his frown deepens. “Userkare’s tomb.”

For a long moment the whole room is completely silent, no one even breaths as the consequences of this information are processed. 

“You are certain of this?” Ardeth asks. 

The large man shakes his head minutely. “No. Everything we hear is spoken in half-truths and riddles. I am not certain of anything. I can only speak to my suspicions.”

“Jaleel had control of that region.” The spymaster adds, setting down her own empty cup. “We hadn’t worried much over his presence there as the man had no knowledge of true power. He was blind to the most valuable treasures there.” 

Ardeth frowns, his eyes staring down into the dark brew swirling slowly in his abandoned cup. 

Since the defeat of Imhotep life has been good for them. Their duties have been easy and quiet, familiar routes of patrol and watch to make certain ancient powers are left undisturbed. It has been a pleasant life. 

Ardeth would be lying to himself if he ever believed it would last forever. 

“Hassan. Samiya.” The scarred man and the woman both stiffen slightly, focusing completely on their leader. “Gather what you need and ride to the tomb. The Claw must not be removed.”

The man who had been fussing with the coffee pot scoffs lightly. “Even if this Crocodile does manage to steal it, it is highly unlikely he would be able to wield it. The blood of the Pharaohs does not run strong enough through any man’s veins-”

Ardeth cuts him off with a sharp gesture. “You may be right but even a remote chance that they will be able to use The Claw is still too much of a risk to accept.

“I am disquieted by these new rumors. If they prove correct then this Crocodile is now emerging from the murky waters he was hidden in, and I am afraid he will be much larger and much more dangerous than we could ever have imagined.”

\---

“Mafdet’s Claw?” Imhotep finds Alex’s delicate frown sweet. He watches raptly as the young man digs deep in his brain for some nagging memory. 

The boy’s fingers have reached out timidly to touch the page Imhotep has presented to him, pads sliding over the elder’s elegant scrawl. Imhotep still writes in loose, cursive hieroglyphs and he can tell this fact surprises Alex more than he will ever admit to.

“Good.” Imhotep praises. He nudges the book forward and Alex quickly shifts to wrap his hands around the limp journal, pulling it towards himself so he can bury his nose deeper. 

The boy reads like his mother. 

With Alex distracted Imhotep pushes himself to his feet again, sliding the thin, abandoned volume of Hebrew legends off of Alex’s lap as he goes. The boy doesn’t so much as twitch, even as the backs of his keeper’s fingers glance over the tops of his thighs. Imhotep restrains himself from impulse to linger. 

He can hear Alex begin to whisper over some of the words. His comprehension of spoken Egyptian is excellent, but with relatively few surviving texts Imhotep understands that his prize has only had so much opportunity to develop his literacy. 

It is a pleasant thing to listen to his earnest efforts while Imhotep places the other book on the side table and sets his sights to straightening the sheets of their bed. 

“Is it a real artifact? I only remember talk of it as a mythic thing.” Alex’s voice is muffled by the book he’s holding in front of his face and Imhotep is afflicted with a deep twinge of affection. 

“And my own experiences?” He challenges. “The books of the living and of dead? The Scorpion King? Are these not also ‘myths’ by your scholars’ estimation?”

“Point.” Alex acknowledges, still not turning his face away from the pages in front of him and Imhotep’s eyes are warm. 

There’s a thread of something very like excitement wending itself through the older man’s nerves. He is eager for this first test of their fledgling bond. This first adventure. 

The boy has been sour but not actively hostile since the attack on his first day of convalescence. While it would perhaps be prudent to allow Alex more time to acclimate to Imhotep’s renewed presence in his life, Imhotep finds himself driven by an uncommon optimism. He wants to take action, to move things forward with his prize.

For once he almost believes the gods are with him. 

His rise to power has been gradual, his fingers digging into the flesh of his rivals at such a steady pace that they were not even aware they were being pierced until with savage satisfaction Imhotep had closed his fist and ripped out their hearts. 

There were dozens of kingpins before, vying for power amongst one another like stray dogs in a mangy pack. As of tonight Imhotep is the only one left at the top, a smattering of lesser names still operating but only under his goodwill and guidance. 

It is more than time to start pursuing the greatest treasures sheltered by Egypt’s sands, particularly since he can now do so with his blessed prize by his side. 

Imhotep draws the key for his rooms out from under the neck of his shirt and turns towards Alex’s back, feet drifting silently over the carpet as he draws up behind him. 

“It is very real Alexander.”

Alex shivers at the sound of his full name and he raises his head to turn his gaze over his shoulder. There’s a spark in his eyes which sets Imhotep’s soul on fire. “And you know where to find it.” Alex murmurs, a statement not a question.

A slow smile graces Imhotep’s lips. “Yes.”

\---

Imhotep has a familiar key in his hand, the same key which has kept Alex lying awake, plotting out how he might slip the long chain over Imhotep’s head and steal away with it into the night. Alex can’t help himself, his eyes hone in on it with the focus of a striking cobra, giving himself away. 

The older man just walks slowly, deliberately, telegraphing his movements as he makes his way towards the door to the hall. A door that Alex now realizes the man has failed to close: an error which has not been repeated since the first day’s attempt to flee. 

Alex’s mouth goes dry, his hands slowly lowering the journal down to his lap. 

Pausing in the doorframe, Imhotep turns his head to cast a look behind him with a signature smirk gracing his lips. 

“Come with me.” He rumbles with that sweet, low tone and Alex’s toes curl against the carpet. 

“You- I- You’re letting me out?” The stuttered, desperate words are immediately regretted the moment they slip off Alex’s tongue but frankly he’s shocked. 

Imhotep nods slowly, so slowly, like he’s worried any abrupt motions will set Alex to flight-

“It has never been my intention to keep you locked up forever. Come. There is more for you to see.”

This is apparently all the invitation Alex is going to get as Imhotep turns and walks out of the room, disappearing into the shadows beyond. 

A moment later Alex hears the faint, familiar scraping of a key in a lock and the creak of an opening door. 

Then there is a shock of yellow-white light cutting into the dark, the sandy stone blocks of the hall which had scraped so cruelly under Alex’s touch are illuminated. 

Mouth still dry, palms sweating, Alex scrambles to push himself out of the chair, still clutching the journal in one hand. This is ridiculous, his heart is racing like it would if he were about to open a forgotten king’s tomb. 

What could be out there? After a week in this one small room, the possibilities feel monumental. 

With a deep bolstering breath Alex starts forward. He stops at the threshold, bare feet hesitating to step onto the cold stone beyond. His free hand clutches at the wooden door frame, knuckles blanching as he squeezes and lets go. What had before been an endless tunnel of dark and drug-induced demons is now a simple stone corridor. Alex can’t quite make out the steps and door at the end of the hall, but he knows they’re there. For a moment there’s an overwhelming instinct to run for it. He knows it didn’t work last time but maybe he wasn’t trying hard enough, maybe he’d done something stupid with his brain addled by Imhotep’s medicines-

Reason wins out over impulse and Alex shakes his head before glancing over to study the other doorway which has now been revealed. 

When he’d raced down the hall a week ago he’d kept his hand on one side of the corridor only, finding nothing but rough hewn stone beneath his fingertips. If only he’d tried the other side he would have found this other door. It would have been just as useless of course but Alex doesn’t like the fact that he missed it. 

Imhotep moves something inside the room and there is a resulting quiet clatter of wood on wood and the rustle of pages. From his angle Alex can just spy a sliver of shelves and books, browns and golds and blues and reds- 

Before he’s even fully aware of it he’s stepping forward onto the cold stone. Eyes wide with anxious wonder as he approaches this newly revealed secret. 

The more he sees the more his inhibitions vacate. All hesitation evaporates like morning mist under a desert sun. 

_‘Good God.’_ He thinks to himself. _’It’s wonderful.’_

The room is a library of sorts. He had thought Imhotep’s bedroom packed with treasures, but he had been mistaken. Imhotep’s rooms to this place are like a poor man’s collection of chapbooks to the Library at Oxford. The eight foot tall walls brace bookshelves which reach as high as the vaulted ceiling, their dark wood loaded with tomes and texts of all sorts. Ancient crumbling codexes mix with what appear to be brand new paper backs and academic publications. Thick leather volumes are interspersed with delicate coptic stitched bindings. Scrolls are stored in a honeycomb like system which dominates one whole wall, many with small cloth tags carefully tied around the scroll handles, identifying the knowledge within. Peppered here and there are shelves entirely dedicated to jewelry boxes, old wooden crates, and woven baskets filled with unknown bounty. 

While Imhotep favors fire in his private chambers, there are electric lights here. What could have been an impossibly claustrophobic space is opened up by the light and Alex honestly doesn’t know where to look first. There are canopic jars and statuettes of gods and goddesses Alex doesn’t even know the names of and is that a fucking sarcophagus in the corner?

He’s like a kid in a toy shop. He can’t help himself as he turns around to look at all these extraordinary things. His mouth might even be hanging open and there’s not enough processing capacity left in him to close it. 

When he finally whirls around to focus on Imhotep he finds the man smiling. Not one of his mocking smirks or his know-it-all smiles either. It’s closed lipped but surprisingly broad and genuine and it does weird things to Alex’s guts to see it. He snaps his mouth shut with a click of teeth and swallows loudly to rewet his throat. 

“Do you like it?” Imhotep asks quietly, without condescension, and Alex can’t even begin to pretend to be anything but awed. 

“It’s wonderful.” He says, out loud this time, and he means it. 

Though he tries to temper his genuine delight with wariness, Imhotep seems just as swept up with the moment, standing up a little straighter and looking around his sanctuary with a distinct air of pride. 

“Your words make my happy, my young friend. Since your body is mending steadily I will leave this room open to your perusal.”

The way he phrases it only highlights the fact that Alex is still under lock and key. It smarts, but not as much as it probably should, dampened by a surge of gratitude which is as frustrating as it is genuine. 

Alex manages to refrain from saying thank you, but Imhotep doesn’t seem to expect the words anyways. 

They both stand in silence for a long minute, gazing about in mutual admiration of the glorious hoard. 

Then Imhotep shifts, turning to lean over a mid-sized map table, several scrolls unfurled and laying across it. 

Alex eagerly walks up to stand by Imhotep’s side, eyes drinking in the ancient painting of the desert, the blue Nile cleaving right down the middle of the large document. 

“My journal, if you please.” Imhotep holds out his palm and Alex glances once at the book in his hand before passing it back to its owner. 

The larger man opens it quickly to the page on Mafdet’s Claw and begins to consult his writing. He doesn’t wrap his lips silently around words the way Alex tends to, but his eyes are lively, filled with a contagious sort of excitement as he flips between reading some clue from the journal and matching it with a point on the map, one broad finger tip just barely dancing over the surface of the papyrus as he traces a path to the west. 

_‘He’s not your friend.’_ Alex abruptly reminds himself, his subconscious viciously kicking the door down and stomping on the moment. _‘He’s not your boss. He’s your kidnapper. Get a grip.’_ It’s a truth which makes Alex’s good mood shrivel and his eyes loose some of their spark. He stops looking at Imhotep’s lips and focuses solely on his hands, following him along his secret path across Egypt. 

Still, there’s a warmth in Imhotep’s voice when he next speaks and it’s unfairly hard to not fall into the sound of it and linger there where things can be good and nice and easy. 

“The Claw was a very real tool of the Pharaoh in my day.” The former priest explains. “It was said to be a gift from the goddess herself, a weapon which would protect the king from his enemies and could eliminate threats with a single strike. It was hundreds of years after my condemnation that Pharaoh Teti was murdered by a usurper and The Claw was stolen.” 

Alex snorts out a laugh in a fit of dark humor. “Sounds like it doesn’t work too well if it lets a king get himself murdered.”

Imhotep bobs his head once to acknowledge the point. “There is an element of will involved in the wielding of The Claw. It makes the wearer impervious to certain things such as poison, infection, disease - but a physical strike that is not deliberately countered may still fell its master.”

Alex hums noncommittally in reply, staring at the seemingly blank patch of desert Imhotep is pointing at on the map. 

“You think it’s there?” He prompts after a moment and Imhotep turns to look at him for the first time since they began discussing The Claw. 

“Yes. Teti’s murderer was his son, Userkare. Eventually Teti’s intended heir, Userkare’s half brother, retook the throne. Userkare was forced to flee. Scholars of your kind consider him a petty Pharaoh of inconsequential reign, and they write his body off as lost somewhere to the desert. What they do not realize is that when he fled, Mafdet’s Claw went with him, presumably to his grave. Pharaohs after Userkare frequently claimed to possess The Claw’s power, but any rings they wore were simple fakes they hoped would cow the simpleminded. No, the ring rests with Userkare.”

“So find him and you find the claw.”

“Yes.”

Alex’s skin still tingles in spite of it all, a tense sort of energy spilling into his bones. He’s more excited than he wants to be, and he scowls as he tries to hold it back. 

“Well Im sure you’ll have fun tracking it down. Let me know how it goes.” Turning on his heel Alex rips his eyes away from the document. Wandering over to the nearest shelf he begins to poke through it disinterestedly, not registering what’s in front of him, his mind still reeling from visions of sandy tombs and gnarled, dry fingers bearing ancient jewels-

“Do not be a fool.” Like a physical blow Imhotep’s words startle Alex and stiffen his spine. Before he can turn one of those large, warm hands his wrapped around his bicep and he’s being yanked around to face the Ancient Egyptian, his face twisted by frustration. “I would not show you this if I did not mean for you to come with me.”

Those visions of a glorious expedition war with real memories of his last cross-desert trek with Imhotep and Alex feels a little breathless. There is want, and there is distrust and they weigh out in equal measure. 

“Our last journey together was not very pleasant.” He finally argues, voice shakier than he’d like it to be. 

A deep frown mars Imhotep’s features and the man slowly, deliberately let’s go of Alex’s arm. “I do not know how many times I can reassure you that I am a changed man. I will not ravish you if it is against your will.”

“Force me. You forced me.” Alex mumbles, something lodged in his throat and Imhotep’s frown softens to an expression of regret. 

“I did.” he acknowledges quietly. “Never again.”

A pregnant sort of silence falls between them and Alex’s breaths are short in his lungs. The want and the distrust are battling it out and Alex can’t quite believe himself because is he really, is he really really going to-

Of course he is. This is what he wanted after all. This is an adventure. 

“When we return-” Alex starts, stomach doing a funny little swoop at the widened eyes and look of delight which takes over Imhotep’s features. “I will not be locked in this room again. I go with you as a partner in this expedition, not a prisoner.”

Alex knows he has little to bargain with, nothing more than his agreement to enter into this journey with Imhotep willingly, but it seems to be enough. Imhotep shuts his eyes and nods once, slow and formal, to seal the deal. 

When his eyes peel back again to meet Alex’s gaze there is such warmth there, such happiness.

“So it shall be.”

-

By the end of the evening they have spent hours together in the library, poring over maps and charts, Alex asking myriad questions about Imhotep’s sources and speculations. The man’s knowledge is vast, the sort of thing that can only be acquired by first hand experience and Alex has never been this academically stimulated, _never_. Working with this man as a primary source is like a physical sensation pricking at his skin, setting his blood a fire as they talk and the plot and they look to the west. 

When they go to bed that night Alex can’t even find it in himself to be properly irritated at their continued sleeping arrangements. Already he has insisted on his own bed roll while they travel and Imhotep has gracious acquiesced as long as they share a tent. Alex is uncertain if the man is still worried about him scarpering off in the middle of the night or if he just likes Alex close for- other reasons. 

‘Probably both.’ He thinks wryly, the exhaustion that comes in the wake of a thrilling discussion dulling any sort of distaste he would otherwise have felt. 

As always Imhotep undoes his bandages while Alex sits still on the edge of the mattress, breaths shallow while those fingers ply their trade. Warmth and a satisfying ache suffuse through his skin as Imhotep cleans him, then the tingling almost pleasure of the liniment being applied. A new bandage is taken up in those strong hands and they begin winding it around and around and around. Imhotep’s face is so close, his gaze trained on his work and Alex takes the time to study him. 

This former mummy is older, certainly, but there is still such a strength in those features. All those years ago - and Alex can admit this now, it doesn’t hurt as much as it did when he’d first gained his freedom - there had been a part of him which had been undeniably enchanted with this face. While it was often twisted up in an expression of violence or skewed with a condescending smirk, Imhotep’s beauty is inescapable. To see it these past few days bearing only the marks of concern and quiet contentment-

Alex shakes himself mentally to halt his train of thought. Perhaps these ruminations will disgust him more in the morning but for now Alex feels benign, letting his mind go blank and his eyes to drink in the face of his captor while the man tends to his healing body. 

When he has changed into a pair of linen pants for sleeping - on his own, and with underthings, thanks - Alex tucks himself into bed and watches dispassionately as Imhotep removes his own clothing and dons the same loose caftan he has been sleeping in each night since the first they had spent together. 

It is only after Imhotep has snuffed out the lamp and the room is plunged into darkness - they did not light a fire tonight, so caught up in their planning - that Alex remembers his promise to himself to look away from the revelation of Imhotep’s body, to not give the other man the satisfaction of his fixation. 

Surprising himself, Alex almost laughs. Grinning self-deprecatingly to himself in the dark, he turns to nuzzle his face into his pillow and settles himself to sleep.


	9. Calling you Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evy, Rick, and Jonathan do some scrambling. Alex and Imhotep start their journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so tired but here are some salient points:  
> 1) next chapter will have sex. I meant to have you wait longer but f it, i wanna write a sex scene.  
> 2) I will read through for more edits later, I just wanted to get this up here  
> 3) Sorry for a not very exciting chapter. Just need to write this exposition to get all the pieces in place for the more fun chapters. Hope you enjoy it all the same.
> 
> EDIT 12-26-17  
> I rewrote a bunch of this chapter. It was too melancholy, it bothered me. I'm gonna try and have a new chapter up by the first. Fingers crossed.

To travel from Peru to London by boat is a matter of weeks if not months.  The bulk of South America rests between these two points, and in her moment of psychic distress this is proving to be something of a difficult matter to explain to Evy.

They've traveled by such extraordinary means in the past, striking down time and distance like they hold no sway so perhaps it makes sense that she expects some immediate solution to their problems. Unfortunately, Rick can't literally move mountains. 

So as Evy tries to drag them right back on the boat they’ve just disembarked from, Rick negotiates with their driver to take them and their luggage to Lima’s airfield instead of the hotel.  A significant look to Jonathan and the man begins arguing gently with his sister, drawing her attention to him so Rick can hoof it to the nearest bar and bully the bar keep for the use of their beat up telephone. 

Several crackling connections later and Rick has tracked down an old army acquaintance in the area, one unlucky son of a bitch who managed to survive both great wars, and now there's a plane with their name on it to take them to Pan Am field in Miami.  From there he can charter a flight back to London and on to China for him and his family. 

With their travel now arranged he gets directions from a surly day drinker to the nearest post office and he jogs over, hoping the postal clerk will take either the pounds or the pesos in his pockets because he hasn't been able to exchange yet for any sols. 

It's expensive to send a telegram from here to London, even more so to China, but pounds seem to satisfy the clerk and Rick spends them rapidly, sending four missives to those who have the best chance of having recently seen Alex. All his messages end with curt directions to direct all replies post haste to their residence in London, England. He tips the telegraphist for her quick work and then he's out on the street again, picking his feet up in a proper run towards the dock. 

His heart is hammering, salt of his sweat stinging at his eyes, and he feels terrifyingly alive. 

When he’s managed to weave his way back through the odorous throng he sees Jonathan fighting a losing battle with his sister, his thin body not nearly enough to corral her determination.  

Rick pulls up next to them, panting from exertion in a way he never would have twenty years ago, the creases in his brow dug deep.  

“Evy, no, nope, we’re not getting back on the boat.” He takes her arms in his hands as gently as he can but she’s wiry and flexible in a way he is intimately familiar with and she squirms free, turning on her husband with a whirl of skirts and a fierce look on her face. 

“Yes, we are.” She snaps, trying to grab his wrist, forcing him to flail slightly as he attempts to evade her slender hands. “Alex is in trouble, we have to get back to London.”

“Yeah, I get it, I believe you, but no, Evy-” She’s managed to snag his hand and has leaned backwards, leveraging her slight body mass against her husband’s and Rick stumbles forward. 

Through it all Jonathan just stands aside, his hands folded on top of his head as he watches the couple tussle, trusting they’ll sort their plans out between the two of them. They always do. 

“Stop! Stop! Damnit, Evy, I got us a flight in three hours to Florida.  We can take a plane from there to London.” Rick yelps, digging his heels in so his wife can pull him no further. 

She releases him so suddenly Rick stumbles back and very nearly falls on his ass as he fights to get his legs under him. 

“What? Why didn’t you say so?”

Her sharp eyes scan the crowd and she spots their car and immediately begins trotting towards it, Jonathan glances once at Rick who is only just straightening before he jogs after her. 

Taking a steadying breath Rick grits his teeth and follows after them at a more sedate pace. 

“Hurry, Rick!” Evy calls over her shoulder and Rick would roll his eyes if he didn’t resonate so accutely the clear note of distress which colors her tone. 

She’s a goof but yeah, yeah, she’s right. She’s right. Who cares if the plane isn’t leaving for at least three hours? Who cares if it will still take him hours more to charter the rest of their travel when they get to Miami?

Alex is in trouble. Their son is in trouble. Their child.

Squaring his jaw and taking a steady heave of breath, Rick jogs up to the heavily loaded down car and nods to their driver before ducking into the back seat and allowing his wife to reach over and slam the door closed. 

“To the airfield, quickly.” Evy orders in clipped tones and not even the driver can seem to argue with a woman using _that_ voice. 

“It’ll be alright Evy.” Jonathan says quietly from the other side of the cab and Rick reaches up to steady himself on the handle over the cab door with one hand, the other reaching to wrap around his wife’s shoulders and squeeze her with as much comfort as he can offer. 

God he hopes so. It better be.

\---

It takes a day to amass the supplies they’ll need to get themselves to the tomb and back. Methods of transportation are improving all the time but still the desert remains an unforgiving mistress. They’ll be riding the slow but reliable camel out to their destination, camping along the way. 

It feels bizarre to Alex to be so involved in the planning of their trip this time. He keeps getting flashbacks of the last journey he took with Imhotep, remembering what a whirlwind it was, how out of control he felt, how wild his days were and even more so his nights. 

As he helps Imhotep pore over ledgers detailing weight and quantity and decide who’s to carry what, he’s pathetically glad to be so involved. It is better to be a part of this, to understand, to control. 

And he needs to feel some control somewhere, or else he will get swallowed up by all that is happening so quickly. Agreeing to go on this expedition had been the work of an instant, an adventurous impulse he won't renege on, but there’s a nervousness in him. Imhotep has promised to leave him unmolested, has even granted him the privacy of his own bedroll and that’s something, that’s something. Still there is so much potential here, so many chances to fall back down that rabbit hole, to relive all those old violations.

He wants this but it’s also, frankly, terrifying. To be going down such a path again willingly, to be venturing out into the desert with this great, ancient creature of malice once again-

He must really be crazy. Totally, completely insane he thinks as he sits at the small desk in the library room, ticking off tally marks as he counts up how many canteens they will need to carry, how many pounds of dried meat. 

Yet when Imhotep leans over his shoulder to study his work, that intimate moment when his horror and repulsion should be at their worst, Alex just glances up and catches sight of the look of pride on the former priest’s face and he can’t help it. Alongside the disgust and the anxiety, he feels warmth. He feels excitement. 

Damnit. 

The thrill of adventure is in his bones, in his blood; it’s been bred into him. When he is too self-reflective he might lament that he was born such a wild, impulsive thing, but as Imhotep’s large hand rests lightly on the back of his chair, the warmth of those fingertips just seeping through the thin cotton of his shirt, Alex doesn’t care. 

He makes another checkmark in the ledger and he feels ready to give Egypt another try. 

He’s ready for a new journey.

\---

It takes them the better part of a day to get to Miami and even more than that to get to London. After more than 48 hours in transit the O’Connells finally set down in rainy London proper but they’re not deterred. They hit the tarmac running, what luggage they’d managed to negotiate onto the plane is bundled up hastily into a new cab and they’re off to their estate. From that old, quiet house they make phone call after phone call, collect their telegrams, and scour what’s left in Alex’s room for any hint, any sign, any clue for where they ought to run to next. 

The whole thing is unpleasantly familiar and Evy’s stomach churns as she tries not to compare this to events from the past. She tries not to panic.

Every friend and colleague they reach out to reports nothing. No Alex in London. No Alex in China. They find out that he’s discontinued his studies, that his now former professor cum supervisor received Alex’s resignation weeks ago. 

_Why in the hell didn’t Alex tell them._

Sitting at an ornate desk Evy stares out her study window at the sheets of rain washing over the glass and wonders if she missed something, if there had been something Alex had said to her before they’d left for Peru, something he’d done...

She hasn’t had a single psychic ping since that first swell of intuition either. No visions, no dreams, no possessions by ancient spirits to guide her hand. The cosmos have been frustratingly quiet and Evy just wants one more sign, a little nudge in the right direction. Alex is such a boy that with the right motivation the whole world is at his finger tips, he has friends, connections, interests of his own that his mother has no catalogue for. Evy can acknowledge this, but she can’t fathom why he’d disappear so thoroughly, why he’d choose to stray from everything he’s been working towards. 

If he’d been in some sort of trouble wouldn’t he have reached out to her? They are close, they have a good relationship, especially after all the trauma of his youth. They’ve healed those scars together, and those pains of the past only served to bond them tighter, draw them closer as a family. 

Evy loves her son so much, and she knows he loves her too, and she can’t understand _why he would do this to them_.

Her thin fingers pet aimlessly over the papers she has in front of her: telegrams and letters, scraps of paper Alex had taken notes on and discarded in the library, receipts from his dresser, hand written notes from his friends. 

They’d found a stack of Evy’s archaeological journals in his room which is hardly unusual, but now she picks one up and flicks haplessly through the pages, glancing at drawings of Mayan monuments and Roman baths and wondering ‘ _Maybe he’s there, maybe he’s standing right there in that pyramid, next to that aqueduct, on that ancient plain._ ’

The distant sound of the front door banging open has her on her feet in an instant, tossing the journal back into the pile of its siblings, and she’s trotting to the front hall. Her stocking feet slide against the marble as she skids to a stop on the mezzanine which overlooks the foyer. 

“Any luck?” She calls down to her husband, Rick shrugging out of his water logged coat and giving the thing a shake before he just tosses it onto a bench, utterly disgusted. 

“No. I went to all the places I could think of, bars, pubs, the museum. No one’s seen him for weeks. 

The cruel spark of hope in Evy’s breast dies a little bit more and she hangs her head for a long moment, hands gripping the rails tightly. Below her Rick’s wet shoes thud against the wooden floor one at a time as he pries them off and throws them aside, then he shuffles forward in a state of utter exhaustion to one of the armchairs which dress the entry hall. He slumps there like a sack of rags and bones, eyes staring dully out at nothing.

It takes her a minute but when Evy picks her head up she makes her way to the staircase and slowly descends the wooden steps to join him, her feet getting wet from the puddles he’s tracked in behind him. 

“Oh Rick.” She says quietly, sinking down into the chair next to his.

There’s a fire burning in the grate which the housekeeper lit before she left for the night, but it doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything. She feels so cold. 

“I looked through all of those journals. There’s a lot that he’s been taking notes on, underlining and such, but its not one location. He was reading about sites all over the world, Rick. From the Americas all the way back to China.” She sighs deeply, reaching up to rub at her brow with one hand. “I’ll start calling all of the site contacts I suppose. Perhaps he reached out to one of them, perhaps someone knows-”

She’s cut off when the door bangs open again and Jonathan come stumbling through, wrestling to close a large black umbrella which has clearly been doing some great battle against the weather. 

“Evy, Rick!” He shouts, even though they’re right there, and Evy’s on her feet in an instant, Rick leaning forward in his chair, his eyes sharp again and honed in on his brother in law.

“What?” Rick snaps, anticipation thrumming through him as Jonathan manages to close the umbrella finally and flings it against the wall, his wet shoes squeaking loudly on the polished floor as he makes his way towards them. 

“I got it. I got it!” he announces proudly, pumping his fist in victory

Evy’s heart stops for an instant before in thumps painfully back into tis rhythm feeling too large for her chest. “Where is he?” She demands. “What did you find out?”

“Well you see,” Jonathan begins, pacing a few steps back and forth in front of his audience, long fingers gesticulating enthusiastically. “First I went to the airport, I know a girl there, lovely woman, met her at a soiree a few years back, knew she might have an eye on their files over there and - with a little persuasion - I got her to paw through the passenger logs. No such luck there I’m afraid. But then I figured, ‘Why not stop by and pay old Nigel a visit down at the harbor?’ He-”

“Spit it out!” Rick shouts, getting to his feet and grabbing the smaller man about the shoulders, drawing him up short in his circling. “What did you find?”

“Right!” Jonathan snaps back, enthusiasm not dampened in the least. “Got a look at the lists of passengers for all of the ships carrying folks hither and thither on the day _after_ we left Peru. First two logs, nothing there, and and in the _third_ ledger... there he was. The HMS Magdalena.”

“Sailing where Jonathan?” Evy interjects, stepping forward to grip the forearm of her husband for support. “Where was the ship going?”

The room is utterly silent as it waits for Jonathan’s reply, even the fire burns noiselessly and the rain seems to lessen in breathless anticipation. With a glint in his eye and a light flush to his damp cheeks Jonathan smiles grimly. “Egypt.”

\---

Alex almost calls the whole trip off before it can even begin.

The small expedition crew gathers in a courtyard at the crack of dawn in a courtyard at the back of building. The air is typically morning-cold, and only a bitter blue sort of light illuminates the tiled plaza since the sun has not yet fully crested the swell of the earth. It feels glorious against Alex’s cheeks, used to the stagnant warmth of Imhotep’s chambers. 

He inhales furtively, giddily taking in the scents of the morning air even as Imhotep attempts to hurry him along. 

The damn mummy has been a a half step behind him since the moment he’d awoken, hastening his morning ablutions, herding him through the dark halls of his fortress, urging him to step quickly for they have much to do. It’s left Alex feeling off balance and rushed and his heart pounds in an anxious way against his ribs, his lips plastered with a frown even as he is enjoying this first taste of free air. 

The heat of the man at his back propels him into the courtyard proper, emerging from the shadows of the cloister and into the open square. Blue and white tiles cover everything, from the columns to the small fountain to the very ground beneath Alex’s feet. Along the far wall mill three other men and half a dozen camels all bearing heavy loads for their long journey. 

They seem like rough men, but they lack the innate malice those door guards had possessed. They are three very different looking creatures, tall and thin, short and wide, very dark to almost as pale as Alex, but they all watch him back with the same studious stare. They are all dressed for travel in belted kaftans, and turbans wrapped about their heads to keep off the sun.

Alex wonders just how much Imhotep has told these others about him. About them. About what they are, what they have been, what they might be. 

He’s been up all night wondering about it himself. For all the talking they have done the last days, all the planning, all the speculation and consideration, Alex is overcome with a sense of woeful under-preparedness as he approaches his soon to be travel companions.

He swallows sharply, his pace slowing. 

Behind him Imhotep has dressed for their journey much like the other men in travel garb, a simple long tunic with a gray kaftan belted over it, though his shaved head remains bare, as if he is certain the sun wouldn’t dare to burn him. 

It’s even stranger now than it was before in his rooms to not see him dressed as he always was: sheer linen robes, ornate kilts, kohl rimmed eyes and bold adornments. To see him garbed so mundanely is unnerving.

Alex breathes deep to try and steady himself. 

With the smell of the camels, the travel clothes, the meagre splash of dawn, the quiet purpose of the party it all suddenly feels too real. Alex’s feet fail him, and he stops short of a polite greeting distance from the other men, hovering awkwardly next to the fountain with Imhotep a looming presence at his shoulder. 

The other men continue to stare at him for a long moment, then cast their eyes away respectfully when they see the way Imhotep guards him, and Alex flushes, feeling ashamed and awkward and anxious and younger than he is. 

“Alexander? Are you ready?” Imhotep murmurs close to Alex’s ear after a long moment where the younger tries to gather himself. 

The first step is always the most difficult. He knows this. 

So he exhales sharply and casts a look of displeasure over his shoulder at Imhotep’s intimate tone. He’s already made it bountifully clear as to how he expects to be treated on this trip. 

He shrugs his shoulder away from the questing fingers which sought to rest there and with deliberate effort his feet carry him forward again, joining the others

Just as he is screwing his courage to the sticking place of course, Imhotep has to complicate things again. This time with a stupid camel. 

The man finally leaves his place as Alex’s shadow and steps before, arm outstretched towards Alex’s intended steed and the man cannot be serious. 

Out the six animals there is only one with a high-backed, chair-like saddle adorned with a thickly cushioned seat and layers of colorful saddle blankets. It looks gaudy and ridiculous compared the spare, utilitarian tack the others are sporting. It looks like a throne and surely anything so ostentatious can be meant only for Imhotep?

But the man’s hand is unmoving, his gesture undeniably clear. He expects Alex to step up to this creature and its ridiculous ornaments and claim it for himself. 

Alex meets Imhotep eyes with an expression of deep disbelief. 

But as he opens his mouth to protest, to insist that he doesn’t need the special treatment, the other men begin to mount their own steeds around him. With a sinking feeling he knows that it’s too late. As foolish as this saddle will make him look, if he makes a fuss he will only look worse. 

This is not his first dig crew, he knows how important first appearances can be.

Alex swallows down his protests like bile, and steps forward to mount up. 

Forget all the work, all the planning and consideration that went into the last two days. Imhotep’s whims will doom this trip to disaster. Alex is certain of it.

With a grumble of displeasure from Alex and a sharp swat at Imhotep’s hands - a protest which is wholly ignored - the larger draws up distressingly close to Alex’s back before wrapping his fingers around the younger’s hips. In an irritating display of strength he boosts Alex high enough that he does not have to flex and stretch his injured muscles so intensely in order to swing his leg over the back of the animal.

“Thanks.” The young man mutters acidly once he’s seated astride his mount, trying desperately to ignore the heat of his captor’s lingering touch on his thigh and pointedly not looking anyone else in the eye.

He really could not have made it clearer that he insists on traveling as an equal in this party, no more no less, and he already feels like that promise is being sharply bent in Imhotep’s broad hands. 

“You are welcome.” Imhotep demurs and Alex grits his teeth. His nerves are like bees under his skin, tickling his bones, haunting him with a constant threat of real suffering. 

He’s grateful when no one laughs at him and he catches no sidelong glances as they settle themselves to begin. Alex hopes the remaining bruises around his eye tell enough of a story to satisfy their curiosity. He hopes they’ll ask him questions before they draw conclusions. He hopes they won’t ask a damn thing. 

Alex swallows hard and holds his head high as an attendant opens the courtyard gate, and bows deeply. 

One of their number makes a clicking noise in their throat - Alex is unsure who, and two of the strange men set their camels to a leisurely walk. After a beat, Imhotep follows, casting a significant look with a slight tilt of his head towards Alex and the young man taps his heels into his camel’s sides and cautiously murmurs a ‘hut hut’ to his steed, relieved when the animal proves unusually agreeable (for a camel) and begins to follow Imhotep’s mount out of the square. Behind him Alex can hear the rustling of the last man as well as their supply camel fall into line with them.

The procession begins its trek through the streets of a Cairo just beginning to rouse. Past ancient bricks and dark windows, bakers just waking and night guards just returning home they walk with not a sound between them except the steady clop of their camel’s steps. Alex holds tight to the reigns, his gaudy camel rocking him back and forth as each step takes them forward, step by step, meter by meter, towards some new, wild end. 

Soon enough the city thins to no more than hovels, then there’s nothing left of Cairo at all and before them is nothing more than sand and sun and sky. 

Alex’s heart pounds, and his breath sticks in his throat. Amongst the nerves flutters a new sensation, and oh, he had forgotten. His eyes are wide, the sun shining with a vivid white fury against his face as he casts his gaze back and forth over their horizon.

_’It is so beautiful.’_

How could his family have ever left this all behind?

The air heats up quickly, even in winter, and the camels kick up great eddies of sand with each movement of their broad hooves. 

The warmth soaks into his skin and renews him. 

Every scratching, obnoxious grain soothes him.

It feels like home. 

Smiling faintly, he squints up at the sun flying high over their heads, a beady little ball of fire blazing down over the sands. It looks smaller with nothing but blue sky and the yellow sprawl of the desert to compare it to, but brighter, bolder, more blinding.

Feeling dizzy with feeling Alex shuts his eyes and trusts his camel to follow the lead of the animals in front of him. His nerves are still there certainly but he’s running out of room for them with the swell of deep fondness for this place which is flooding him. He’s traveled so much over the years, and returning to his family’s stately, chilly manor in the English countryside has never, ever felt like this. Dazedly he tilts his head back and soaks in the heat of the morning sun. 

He’s home. He’s home. He’s home. 

\---

“There is a valley behind the next dune. We will pause to rest there.” Imhotep calls out to the quiet group from a space a few heads in front of Alex, snapping him out of a doze.

A frown furrows his brow. He faded out there for a moment but only a quick glance at the sun tells him it is far too early to call for a break if they hope to make decent progress in the day.

“I’m fine.” He barks back, feeling bold. He just wants to keep walking. 

Imhotep had made it clear the night before that he would call regular breaks for Alex to keep him from over-stressing his newly healed body. Alex had argued then the same way he’ll argue now: he doesn’t need it. He’ll endure just fine. He wants no special treatment and he certainly does not want the expedition to suffer because of him.

Imhotep has remained steadfastly but Alex’s side for the last few hours, traveling in a companionable silence. Now he frowns at Alex’s sharp retort and casts him a disappointed look.

“Yes, perhaps the others-” Imhotep presses gently but Alex scowls. The same prick of irritation that came with finding himself assigned the fancy camel saddle bites again.

He will be an equal in this party. He insists.

Twisting in his saddle, ignoring the sharp twinge radiating from his ribs, Alex makes eye contact with the large man riding some distance behind him “You good?” He calls out pithily in Arabic. The man shrugs and nods once. “You? You?” Alex calls to the other men in turn with theatrical turns of his head. They all nod lightly, the last man, easily the youngest, going so far as to grin at the heady sarcasm dripping from Alex’s tone. 

“You need a break old man?” The jab is perhaps against Alex’s better judgment, but he grins cheekily at the elder anyway.

Imhotep is silent for a long minute, long enough that Alex can tell the other men are switching from amused to nervous but Alex just keeps his eyes trained on side of Imhotep’s tanned face, his camel plodding along amicably under him. 

After another minute Imhotep shrugs and casually urges his camel into a slightly faster walk so as to draw up alongside the two men at the front, leaving Alex on his own. “As you wish, princess.” He calls behind him as he goes, his face still turned away so the young man cannot see the smug humor glittering in his eyes as the other men begin to cackle with laughter.

Alex squawks and splutters but does not retort immediately. With a petulant humph he turns his head to just study the horizon, watching the haze of heat shimmer over distant sands. 

\---

It takes the boy a while to warm up to their travels. In the morning he is snippy when Imhotep attempts to aid him, to ease the burden on his still sore flesh. Imhotep is careful to not let himself become irritated. He keeps cool and calm like the wide, flat basins of the Nile, hiding his bubbling frustration beneath the surface. 

He trusts that there is something of Egypt in Alex: something embedded in his very firmament. As the hours press on Imhotep watches the young man take to the desert as confidently as if he had been born here. He endures the forbidding landscape like he was scraped together from river mud and had life breathed into him by Isis herself. The farther they move from Cairo, the calmer he grows. He is easier, more pliant after half a day in the sun, like a block of sealing wax that softens in the heat. It soothes Imhotep to watch it happen. 

He can’t even find it in himself to be properly angry when the boy has the audacity to challenge him in front of his men. Perhaps if Alex had really meant to be insulting it would have been cause for more ire, but the way his voice had lilted, the jesting angle of his head and the stubborn humor in his eyes had given the boy away. Imhotep had played along and certainly bested him in words, even if Alex had gotten his wish and they postponed their first break until later in the morning. 

As they near midday and Imhotep calls again for a halt, this time more forcefully, so they may rest during the peak heat. Alex keeps any protests to himself this time, clever boy, and follows Imhotep’s command. Amicably, he even allows the larger man to support his hips and help him slide gingerly off his camel. As it should be. 

It is a sweet thing. So very sweet. 

Haddad and the two others who travel with them sit apart from their master and his consort. They have been good thus far, allowing respect for the strange British boy in their midst, knowing well that he is precious to their lord. 

Imhotep has kept knowledge of Alex largely secret from his ranks, but these four he knows will remain silent. It is best that they understand just how important Alexander is so they may better defend him should any threat should come upon them. 

The privacy of distance is appreciated and Alex and he recline together against Alex’s camel, a very affable creature which has decided to lay down in the sand for a nap of her own. They use the bulk of her body to block out some of the sun while they share a meal between them. Alex picks at the dried meat and fruit which Imhotep has given him, both of them sitting in a not-unpleasant silence as they work their way through their rations.

Abruptly Alex breaks the peace which has settled over them. He turns his head with a look of genuine curiosity on his face. “You haven’t told me yet how you made it back.”

Caught off guard Imhotep chews through the bite he has just taken of his food for a long, silent minute before swallowing and turning his eyes to meet Alex’s. 

“From the underworld.” He clarifies, not a question but Alex nods once to confirm anyway. 

“I saw you fall.” Alex adds, expression pinched and conflicted. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt more awful- I mean, I hated you, but that, that place was, was _horrible_ , I can’t imagine-”

“It was beyond mortal reckoning.” Imhotep agrees quietly, not wanting to dwell in the past but remembering all the same his descent into darkness: the clutch of disembodied hands, clawing, scraping, groping; the stink of sulphur and smoke, the cloying scent of rot; the heat of phantom flames, the rush of bile in his throat as his body plummeted to its doom; the sense of utter loss, total failure. “Horrible does not begin to describe it.”

Alex says nothing in response and Imhotep turns his eyes towards the horizon instead placing a date in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully as he considers what he may tell his young companion. 

This story has remained untold for good reason. Thus far when he has hinted at the happenings of his days spent in unearthly torment the boy has expressed such doubt. He is so very closed-minded to the spectral possibilities which lie beyond the mundane mortal world. While Imhotep knows he could regale Alex with endless details of his time in the twisted halls of limbo, he doubts the boy would believe in his words as anything more than embellishments and fantasies. 

But of course Alex has asked not ‘where,’ but ‘how,’ and Imhotep muses on answering this question in a way he will not scoff at. Something simple, but true.

“I believe you are the one who granted my return.” He offers up at length, putting voice to a suspicion he has been carrying with him for the last decade. 

As expected, Alex balks at such a notion, reeling his head back in distaste. “I didn’t want you back.” He answers, perhaps a bit too sharply, and Imhotep tilts his head in a placating fashion, wiping his now empty hands off on a cloth he produces from the pocket of his kaftan, the heels of his sandaled feet digging slightly in the ground to find the cooler sand waiting beneath the surface. 

“Of course. Nevertheless the time I spent with you proved the key to unlocking a ‘second chance’ I believe you would call it.”

“Fourth chance.” Alex grumbles and Imhotep can only incline his head in acceptance. The boy is not wrong. 

“You were evil.” Alex pushes again after a moment, words coming to him slowly. “You hurt me. How could that have earned you-”

“I acted in a cruel and callous fashion towards you, yes.” Imhotep interrupts before Alex can work himself into a state of distress. He turns his eyes back to the boy and deliberately keeps his gaze as gentle as he is able as he explains. “But even as I reached out to you with violence meant to subdue you, your spirit reached back towards me with such brilliant defiance that you were able to delve into me, into my very essence and uncover something... new. Even with my soul corrupted by Anck-su-namun’s blighted love, I felt... Fond of you. I had felt fond of nothing for so long, many years even before my Pharoah damned me.

“I believe the gods recognized this role you played and returned me here to do right by you and redeem myself in the process. They knew your spirit was meant for mine, and that the spark which kindled between us would be the key to my redemption. 

“The gods tested that spark. They tempered it through time and trials in the depths of purgatory, but I proved myself to them and emerged victorious.

“I would not have been granted this new chance at life and redemption if it had not been for you.” Imhotep finishes. His hands folded loosely in his lap, his eyes still boring into Alex. 

The boy has his mouth slightly open and his brow furrowed, squinting like he is trying to do some very difficult arithmetic. “So you think your gods, what, gave me to you? That they meant for us to meet?”

“Yes.” Imhotep answers simply. It is the truth.

For a moment Imhotep hopes that they boy is beginning to understand, then Alex shakes his head sharply with a deprecating grunt of a laugh. “Your ego is even bigger than I thought.” 

The young man shifts like he wishes to rise, clearly uncomfortable with this much attention and Imhotep relents.  
He will choose be pleased that the conversation has gone on as long as it has, that Alex approached him in the first place and provided such delightful opportunity to reveal these truths with him. Absolute faith will come with time, Imhotep is certain of this. 

As the young man struggles to rise Imhotep pushes himself gracefully to his feet before reaching down to take Alex’s slimmer hands in his own and help him to stand in the shifting sand. 

“Come then. We have leagues left to travel before we stop for the night.”

When they do eventually stop for the evening the sun is a disk of orange fire just touching the horizon and they dismount their camels in the valley between two dunes, somewhat sheltered from the night winds. 

The animals are fed, watered, and hobbled, three tents are pitched, and a fire is started in short order: a small pile of coals burning in the sand. Coffee is heated and rations are dispersed amongst them, Imhotep delivering Alex’s food to him personally, making certain he has drunk enough water and is seated as comfortably as can be expected while out in the elements as they are. 

As he has been since his outburst this morning Alex is tolerant of the attention, and when he wishes Imhotep to leave him be he seeks to end the moment not with insults but with a stubborn silence. It is preferred to the snark, and Imhotep holds his challenging gaze for a long moment before obeying the silent request to leave him alone as gracefully as he can. While he is reluctant to leave his prize’s side, he does understand the boy must have some peace. 

They are to spend days in relative isolation with one another, no duties or meetings to distract him from their congress. He will bide his time.

Imhotep seats himself across the fire from Alex and finds the position places himself next to his favorite employee. Pleased by this, he takes the opportunity to speak briefly with Haddad about the logistics of their journey. They speculate on the weather for the next few days, how well the camels have handled the pace, how much distance they expect they have covered and how much they will have to cover tomorrow to stay on schedule. 

All the while he keeps a watchful eye on Alexander. Across the fire the young man starts a stilted conversation with Jabari, the youngest of their cohort, and after a few minutes they are chuckling over some common humor and Imhotep cautiously allows it to happen. He knows the boy cannot be expected to remain exclusively in his company and his alone, as much as Imhotep may desire it. 

At least these men know well what will happen if they react to Alex in a way which is not appropriate. Imhotep has made certain of that. 

As the stars begin to the clutter the sky and the Milkyway seeps into life Imhotep calls an end to the evening. They need rest for there is much more travel for them tomorrow. The crew obeys without grumbling, scooping sand over the fire until the coals are just a bare smolder and divvying themselves amongst the tents. 

Alex rises the slowest of them all, and remains several steps behind Imhotep as they approach the small travel tent that has been set up for them. When Imhotep lifts the entrance flap the boy stops completely, hesitating in the night. 

The others have already disappeared into their lodgings so Imhotep schools himself to calm and does not hustle his reluctant companion inside. 

He must be gentle this time. He must not force.

He has already assured they boy that he does not expect the free use of his body. He has even provided his prize with a separate bedroll. There is nothing more for him to do. 

He raises one eyebrow and waits with the best mask of patience he can muster and is rewarded after a moment with Alex’s resigned sigh and return to motion. 

The young man must slide very close to Imhotep to duck into the low tent and the priest does not subdue the impulse to lift one hand and place it gently on Alex’s back.

Slipping quickly inside the tent the moment is all too fleeting, and after allowing a pause for his companion to get situated, Imhotep ducks his head and disappears into the tent as well. The boy must be readied for bed and then they both must sleep. It has been a long day, and tomorrow will only be longer.

In the valley all descends to silence, even the camels dozing off in the sand, waiting for the morning to come again.


	10. It Might be Inevitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some certain Europeans arrive in Egypt. Imhotep and Alex proceed in their journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might not be a very good chapter? I'm having a hard time telling. RL has been Hard, I'm a bit at ends, but I'm happy to have something more to post. 
> 
> NOTE I rewrote a bunch of the previous chapter b/c it was too melancholy. You don't necessarily have to reread it since many of the shifts where just in style and phrasing, but I did change the number of other folks in Imhotep and Alex's part from four to three. I don't particularly like creating OC's in fanfic and I really could only write three (sort of, Asim is a nobody) without getting overwhelmed. 
> 
> That's it. Hope you dig <3

Desert nights are known for their chill. More than once in the dead of an English winter Alex has snapped out a dream of a black desert dusted with silver stars only to find his brain has been tricked by the fresh press of snow against his windowpane.

As he wakes now with the first needles of light on the second day of their expedition, he huffs groggily, his nose chilled, and he turns his face into the lump he is bundled up against, pressing tightly to it, seeking the warmth it seems to radiate so effortlessly. 

He sighs, not truly waking, breathing deep the scent of cold sand and cotton, the salt of sweat, the smoke of a fire. 

_‘Smells nice.’ _He thinks blearily and he is very nearly back asleep when the pliant warmth he is pressed against shifts and begins to roll over like boulders tumbling down a mountain. Alex’s eyes pop open and a cold sort of mortification crawls over his skin. He blinks rapidly at the face of Imhotep which has just turned towards him, the man’s large brown eyes gazing back at him in silence.__

__During the night Alex had huddled down so deep in his bed roll that only the top of his face is still exposed. His arms are curled up in front of his chest in an effort to conserve warmth. Thankfully, though his fingers are reaching for Imhotep, they’re at least bundled away between the blankets, their covetousness a secret yet._ _

__Imhotep on the other hand is looking comfortable indeed, his own blankets brought only half way up his chest, his dark sleeping tunic irritatingly elegant against the tan of his hands and the sliver of his exposed collarbone._ _

__His face is impassive, neutral, and that more than anything turns Alex’s cold horror into a glorious blushing embarrassment. He pushes himself up on one hand with a huff, trying to disguise his ruffled feathers._ _

__“Aren’t you cold?” He blurts out. They’re the only words which seem willing to come out of his mouth and he feels his cheeks flame hotter at the idiocy of them._ _

__A small, enigmatic smile quirks up the corners of Imhotep’s lips and, finally, his eyes narrow in some expression._ _

__“No.” Is all he says in reply, before one of his big hands reaches out to cup Alex’s shoulder and tug. Alex only manages to make a tiny noise of alarm before he tips forward, losing his balance on the one wrist which he was holding himself up with, and is towed back against Imhotep’s side._ _

__There is still a tangled assortment of blankets sandwiched between them, thank heaven, so it is only Alex’s face which ends up in direct contact with the man, and even then Imhotep isn’t godly enough to endure a desert evening without some sort of clothing. The nightshirt feels terribly thin under Alex’s cheek and he squeezes his eyes shut in mortification._ _

__“I am glad to share my warmth if you are cold, little one.” The Egyptian murmurs, his voice deepened from sleep. “We may rest a little longer. The others will begin tearing down camp.”_ _

__For a moment Alex is tempted. He slept so little the night before, the anticipation of their journey weighing heavily on him. For a minute his mind empties out and he drifts, lulled by the warmth of Imhotep’s body._ _

__For a minute all is lovely and peaceful._ _

___‘What the hell am I doing?’_ The thought comes sharp and shivery to Alex’s brain and he is wrenched from the precipice of fresh sleep, his stomach lurching as he yanks himself away from Imhotep and into a sitting position. _ _

__Eyes wide he just stares at the closed flap of their tent as his brain catches up._ _

__“No.” He grunts, feeling a bit frantic as he throws back the blankets and reaches for his boots, his ribs grumbling in protestation at his sudden movements as well as the night spent sleeping on such a firm surface._ _

__Behind him he hears Imhotep sit up himself, his movements quiet and contained compared to Alex’s scrabbling but the young man can’t help himself._ _

__“Alexander.”_ _

__Alex says nothing, yanking on first his socks, then attempting his boots, grumbling when he misses his mark and the leather tongue crumples under his toes. He has to yank it off and straighten the damn thing before trying again._ _

__“Alexander.” A hand falls to his shoulder and Alex just manages to contain a flinch. His movements slow but he does not stop, fixing the abused boot and shoving his foot in promptly before he begins to lace them, fingers working deftly over the brass hooks._ _

__“If you wish to rise, so be it, but I must yet change your bandages.”_ _

__Imhotep’s words give Alex pause and he stops work on the knots of his boots to glance down at his chest, the sides of his shirt hanging open and leaving skin and the fresh wend of bandages exposed._ _

__The man only just redressed them last night and Alex shakes his head with a huff, returning his attention to his feet._ _

__“I’ll be fine until tonight.”_ _

__He can feel Imhotep’s disapproval gather behind him like a storm cloud but he’s not having it. The ex-mummy is a fool if he thinks Alex is going to let the other wait on him. He’ll be pulling his own weight today thanks very much, regardless of his ridiculous camel._ _

__“Alexander-”_ _

__“I’ll be fine!” He snaps, ignoring the warning as he shifts to buttoning up his rumpled shirt. “Let it go.” He adds, a warning of his own, before he dons his vest and shifts around in an awkward crouch to hastily bundle up his bedroll to take it outside and shake out the sand before packing it away._ _

__Alex won’t meet his eyes as he flicks open the closure of the tent flap and drags himself and his burdens out into crepuscular dark._ _

__Sure enough the others have already uncovered last nights coals and are coaxing new flame from them, their own goods already mostly packed and loaded up onto their mounts._ _

__With a determined frown Alex stands up and unfurls his blankets to beat the sand free. His mind is firmly set to beginning the day. All thoughts of sleep and sleeping arrangements are firmly set aside._ _

__\---_ _

__Imhotep consoles himself with the fact that for fifteen minutes he had been able to enjoy the lovely press of his prize against his flank, free from doubt and distrust. Sleep pliant and smelling so sweet beneath his arm, the young man had been a glory._ _

__Now he forces himself to ride a length behind the young O’Connell, openly staring at the breadth of his back, the shift of his shoulders and his arms as he manipulates the reins, the barest glitter of sweat beading at the nape of his neck._ _

__Jabari rides beside Alex, the two of them speaking occasionally in Arabic. They share a common sense of humor and an interest in history which gives them plenty to talk about. Jabari had once been a favored hand of the English academics, assisting in many reputable digs since he was just a young child, given buckets of sand to run back and forth from the diggers to the sifters._ _

__He is a good employee, one worthy of trust, but whenever his lips part to once more make Alex laugh Imhotep finds himself contemplating murder._ _

__He sees the way Haddad and their other man, Asim, share glances. He sees the slight shake of Asim’s head when Jabari teases the young Brit, commenting slyly on how well he slept, how surprisingly _quiet_ the night had been. _ _

__The flush that creeps over Alex’s nape at Jabari’s words is more than just the pink of a fresh sunburn and Imhotep must very deliberately turn his head to speak with Haddad or else he will reach deep into himself and perhaps find some of that ancient power he once knew, enough to gather a sand storm to swallow a man and his camel whole._ _

__“I will speak with him when we stop at midday.” Haddad says very quietly when he meets Imhotep’s eye and the former priest looks fierce indeed, his face- usually regal and impassive towards his second- twisted by violent urges._ _

__There is little more to say than that and Imhotep nods with a sharp scowl._ _

__And continues to console himself with that ghost of a feeling still under his hands, the warmth of a slim body held close to his own._ _

__Patience. Patience._ _

__\---_ _

__The flight from London to Egypt is bumpy, smelly, and desert dry. A pair of small, rattly planes go first to Italy, then on to Cairo where the weary travelers march down the gangplank._ _

__A trio of serious faces with grim purpose separate themselves from the rest with an experienced manner with which they immediately set to securing a taxi._ _

__At a table outside a tiny, dim café near the airfield a young woman sips coffee and reads a newspaper. A dark scarf hides the top of her head from the morning sun and, incidentally, obscures too the way her eyes follow the trio of Europeans piling into the cab. The figures are gone almost as soon as they arrive, the car whisking them away from the airfield and into Cairo proper._ _

__As the vehicle disappears down the street the woman rises gracefully from her Parisian-style chair, abandoning the newspaper on the table._ _

__Her long dress is dark blue and unremarkable, a smudge of shadow that floats across the blindingly bright Cairo street. Her face is unaccented by rouge or kohl, but her smile entices all the same. When she casts her attention towards the other taxi cab drivers gathered on the curb, they go silent and watch her approach. Her hips sway elegantly as she sashays towards them, pulling a cigarette from a bag at her hip and sticking her lower lip out in a pout. Peering up through naturally long lashes she asks if any of them could spare her a match for she has just run out._ _

__Of course there is an immediate clamor to assist her. Several worn brown hands wrestle with their pockets to produce the desired artifact. Soon enough she is pulling in a long drag, letting the smoke seep theatrically from the corners of lips raised in a conspiratorial smile. She enjoys the way the boys’ adam’s apples move when the swallow._ _

__She prefers Camel brand cigarettes because she finds them amusing, and she produces the pack to offer them to her new friends, thankful for their coming to her rescue._ _

__“Strange to see Europeans this time of year.” She murmurs airily, eyes drifting to the side as if lost in thought. “I wonder where they’re headed?”_ _

__“Said they were looking for a ride to Shepheard’s Hotel, probably just going to spend a few weeks getting drunk and making the porters carry their things around.” At this point the eldest of the group spits on the ground in distaste. “I’ve got a cousin who works over there. Damn Brits just like to come over here and pretend they’re king for a while.”_ _

__“How rude.” The woman intones mildly and pulls in another drag from her cigarette. They talk a few moments longer, _what’s your name darling? Where you from? You work for the airlines? What else would a pretty thing like you be doing on a street like this?_ _ _

__She very elegantly doesn’t answer a thing._ _

__When a young boy boldly edges his way between two of the men to join their party she takes one last pull and hands him whats left of her cigarette. He takes it from her with wide eyes and she pulls her hand back with a flourish of her scarf, spinning on her heel to make her return to the other side of the street._ _

__“Aw, sweetheart!” The men call out. A few whistles, a few coos, a few insults, but she’s unmoved and they give up even before she disappears into the dark of that small café._ _

__She has a phone call to make._ _

__\---_ _

__There are a couple of urchins who can always be found outside the Shepheard’s Hotel._ _

__Inseparable, the pair of them. A double act, costumed in the worn clothes which appeal to a kindly tourist with a telegram to post or a hassled lady who needs to get word to the gentlemen’s club that she will certainly miss their dinner reservation if her husband does not return _right now.__ _

__They take what work the hotel guests will give them in exchange for a few coins, and when it’s quiet they roll marbles back and forth to each other, gossiping about the other children they know and what secret things they’ve caught the wealthy laboring over in the dark._ _

__They help locals too, for a price._ _

__There are all sorts of formal and informal understandings they have with men who are in want of information. Deceptively simple things which should be taken quite seriously, and the waifs’ dark eyes watch every new patron who wanders in and out of their hotel with solemn focus._ _

__On a brilliant winter morning when two white men and a woman exit a cab with few belongings and determined faces, the boys crane their necks for a better look._ _

__The woman is sweet and serious, the men swarthy and slender in turn. Their faces are familiar. They’ve seen them before. In a photograph..._ _

__The boys swipe up their marbles and shoot off the moment the trio disappear into the hotel’s front doors. On nimble feet they start their race down the wide boulevard to a darker, denser corner of the city where all manner of strange things happen._ _

__Good money rides on who arrives first with big news._ _

__\---_ _

__Jabari proves to be an excellent travel companion. Alex has never had his mother’s sweet features nor his fathers knack for making bar room buddies. Frankly he’s a bit of an introvert, too prickly to be approachable, too rough to be charming. He tells sarcastic jokes and argues academic minutiae like a champion, but story telling? Small talk? Not so much._ _

__Jabari though, to Jabari socializing comes like breathing._ _

__Over the last few days Alex has learned that the man is only his elder by seven months. He enjoys cricket almost as much as Alex’s old schoolmates in England do and he once won second place in a batting competition._ _

__The man has aspirations to one day earn a university degree in archaeology, classical studies, or perhaps anthropology. He’d like to lead his own dig team, and he has this pipe dream to one day write an academic paper to be published in one of the prestigious English university journals. Of course, he notes with good humor, he should probably learn to write in English first._ _

__He was orphaned at seven and raised rough in the hands of several sets of aunts and uncles, but he holds little against the city which raised him. With every breath he praises his homeland and his beloved Cairo, both modern and ancient, his eyes alight with myth and good mirth as he gestures broadly with the hand which does not hold his camel’s reins._ _

__He does not mention Alex’s ludicrous saddle, doesn’t ask about the phantom shadow of a bruise still darkening Alex’s eye, and after teasing Alex only once about his sleeping arrangements with Imhotep he becomes more reserved on the subject and focuses instead on telling stories to make Alex laugh._ _

__He teaches Alex too: interesting things about reading the sands, about searching the horizon for signs of water, about the strangest mirages which might appear to him should he stare too long at the sun (although some of these stories seem too far fetched for truth)._ _

__Alex likes him very much, and frankly he is grateful for the distraction from their stoic leader._ _

__While he has no doubt that Jabari offers no real contest to Imhotep on any grounds, Alex still feels safer with this good natured creature around. The man brings him some comfort with his easy conversation and affable charms. It’s soothing. Not to mention how pleasant a contrast to his last cross-desert trek. He thinks of Lock-Nah for a moment and represses the urge to gag._ _

__Of course nothing is ever as simple as it seems. Not with Imhotep. When Jabari goes quiet Alex is left with nothing but the thoughts in his head and an empty horizon to set his sights on._ _

__Alex wonders if this is just all part of the man’s master plan? Does Imhotep wish to play on the good mood that Jabari can cultivate? Is this to ingratiate himself deeper with Alex’s favor?_ _

__He hates that Imhotep has changed him like this, has made him so dubious and so certain of the duplicity of others._ _

__The tangle of his thoughts tends to quickly blacken his mood and he often finds himself scowling, eyes pinned to the south._ _

__Jabari though, he cannot stay silent for long. An hour’s quiet riding and he will perk pu again, telling another tale of a flatulent camel or of a drunken Canadian who wished to ride a Nile hippo and the whirlwinds disperse leaving Alex feeling easy and lighthearted again._ _

__Imhotep has made a mess of his head, but as he chuckles quietly at Jabari’s stories, he is glad for the pleasant company. It is an unexpected boon._ _

__Unfortunately the man who loves to ask questions will eventually ask for too much, and late in the afternoon on the third day when they are nearly ready to end their ride, Jabari inquires about something to which there is no easy answer._ _

__“Ah! I’m running out of tales. It is your turn, Little Alex. Tell me a story of your last time in Egypt. I want to hear of _your_ adventures for a change.”_ _

__Alex fixes his eyes to the back of his camel’s head and swallows._ _

__Imhotep is riding behind him - _‘to keep an eye one me’_ he thinks to himself with a sort of black humor - so Alex cannot easily gauge if the man is listening to their conversation. _ _

__Alex still hasn’t had a chance to interrogate Imhotep over what the others know. He really hopes they know nothing at all._ _

__Jabari’s playful grins tell leave him not so sure._ _

__“What makes you think I had an adventure?” He deflects with a shrug, listening to the way his heartbeat pounds dully in his ears. “Maybe I just spent a week in Cairo on a university visit.”_ _

__“Hah! Perhaps.” Jabari grants with a laugh. “But you do not strike me as a man who would be satisfied to be confined to the stacks when you have an opportunity to explore such a land as this. A week talking yourself hoarse in the student bars would bore you to tears.”_ _

__“You’re not wrong.” Alex has to concede with a grimace at the very thought. Even a week spent locked away with the Great Plague of Egypt had proven mind numbingly dull to him when he’d realized all he and Imhotep were going to do was argue and read books._ _

__“I imagine you have quite the tale to tell. I am convinced that only some wild, reckless twist of fate would have directed your path to cross with Master Imhotep’s. Some journey like this, perhaps? Some heroic traipse across the desert, the sun glinting majestically off your fair skin-”_ _

__The blush which is infecting Alex’s skin now is inventing a new shade of pink to properly broadcast his mortification. “No.” He says hoarsely, but Jabari is too entertained in his own fantasy to notice. The man has a wild imagination, and his eyes are trained on the distant, molten sunset, faintly glazed as his words paint the picture he has in his mind._ _

__“Was there fighting? Swashbuckling? I saw a film once, in Alexandria. They called it ‘Thief of Bagdad.‘ Have you seen it? It was a grand story, a very grand story. A princess, an evil wizard, a young thief, great feats of magic, extraordinary journeys, flying through the sky- that is how I imagine you, Little Alex, a player in some great fable. No dim offices or dull studies for you, only the windiest of temple peaks, the brightest of jewels, the deepest, darkest dungeons-”_ _

__Alex’s face is hot but his blood feels cold and he stares unseeing at the back of Asim who is leading their line._ _

__It’s not that Jabari is wrong. Egypt does mean adventure for him, but there is also conflict, there is pain, there is violation. Jabari’s words prick with uncanny accuracy, piercing like a needle at the tender part of Alex’s psyche and his teeth are clenched so hard together its as if they’ve been fastened with a screw, his reigns digging against his palm where he squeezes them._ _

__There is something inside him that is hanging by a very tenuous thread. It’s been twisting and spinning, buffeted back and forth by all that has happened since he first decided to return to Egypt. Jabari’s words tug at it now._ _

__Aya, his lovely, sweet-tempered camel, shakes her large head unhappily, and Alex tries to loosen his grip, to telegraph less of his distress to her._ _

__“You would do well in a fight I imagine, fierce, like a wild thing!” The affable dig hand continues, oblivious. “No one could catch you, who would dare? That Little Alex, he is a wildcat-!”_ _

__“No one would ever mistake Alexander for a cat.”_ _

__Jabari is caught with his hand raised in the air, fingers curled theatrically into claws, his face a rictus of a growl, and he blinks back to reality and glances over his shoulder at his master. He gives his elder a differential nod the moment he speaks, and he responds with respectful silence. If Alex were watching he would see the young man’s face settling into something neutral, see the lines of his body relax while his eyes sharpen._ _

__But Alex is not watching. He’s casting a withering look of his own, brows furrowed in anger as he stares at Imhotep over his shoulder._ _

__“Piss. Off.” Alex snaps, and the three other men in the group go a bit pale at the sharp retort._ _

__Silence falls between them. The desert wind, the shuffling of the camel’s hooves in the sand, the dull jangling of their tack is the only soundtrack._ _

__When Imhotep responds to Alex’s snarl, he does so low and clear. The others may hear him speak, but the rumbling words are meant for Alex and Alex alone._ _

__The fire that blazes in Imhotep’s eyes is too much, and Alex has to turn his face back to stare down at his reins or else he doesn’t know what he’ll do. There’s a tension pulling his shoulder blades together tight, tight tight-_ _

__“You have claws, Alexander” Imhotep explains. “and a sharp bite, but you would never be mistaken for a cat._ _

__“Cats are lazy creatures, sleeping endlessly, stubbornly solitary, scaring easily, taking only small prey and fleeing before great obstacles.”_ _

__The heat of anger in Alex’s blood recedes slightly. He frowns harder down at his reins._ _

__“What am I then?” He snaps after processing for a moment. “Some bird in a cage? A dog on a leash?” Alex knows he reveals too much, but he looks up and straight into the bleeding red and orange of the sun and maybe he won’t be punching Imhotep today but there is still such an overflow in him that he cannot help but spit out the words._ _

__

__The jangling of Imhotep’s tack and the creak of the leather of his saddle gets louder as the man urges his camel to move forward. Out of his peripheral vision Alex sees Jabari draw back, his camel huffing indignantly at being so reined in._ _

__In an instant Imhotep’s body is blocking the sunset, silhouetted against blaze, and Alex refocuses his sight to meet Imhotep’s eyes defiantly, daring him for an answer._ _

__“What am I?”_ _

___What are we?_ _ _

__Imhotep’s eyes are dark and serious. “Jabari is right in part.” His voice has gone quiet now that he is close, intimate. “You are a wild thing. Fierce. Untamable._ _

__“I say you are a jackal.”_ _

__A laugh is startled out of Alex, a sort of graceless, manic thing. “A scavenger? A trash eater? Lovely. Thanks much.”_ _

__Imhotep does not laugh. He reaches out with one hand and for a horrible moment Alex thinks he’s going to touch him. Alex thinks he just might start screaming._ _

__But Imhotep touches his saddle only, his hand pressed firm to the leather. It’s a connection, but not too close, not yet._ _

__“A jackal. A creature of the desert. They work well alone, but best with a partner. They may be tamed, but only with difficulty. They are pragmatic and eat what’s available, but when the whim takes them they hunt greater prizes. They protect their kin. They defend what is theirs. They adapt. They survive.”_ _

__“They’re symbols of death.” Alex argues, throat dry and rasping. He feels oddly empty, unblinking as he holds Imhotep’s gaze, a glow of orange and red ringing the man’s shaved head like some great flaming halo. A sun disk to crown him._ _

__“Yes,” Imhotep acknowledges. “and of a promise of rebirth.”_ _

__Alex sniffs. His head feels tight._ _

__Then he swallows, and exhales heavily, and shakes his head, and generally makes all manner of small movements to break the moment. Ripping his eyes away from his keeper he finds them so dry that tears have gathered in the corners. He pointedly does not wipe at them, staring in the opposite direction of Imhotep, blinking rapidly._ _

__“You just don’t like cats.” He grates out after a moment, rough voice betraying him, and Imhotep simply calls for a halt. The party has reached the low point between two dunes. It’s as sheltered a place as any to end for the evening._ _

__Alex stops Aya at once, he and his animal so close to Imhotep and his that he can feel warmth radiating off the sides of the great beast. Their three companions congregate some meters away, dismounting and deliberately putting their backs to Imhotep and Alex as the elder vaults off his saddle and circles around immediately to help Alex dismount._ _

__In spite of his desire for independence Alex has privately let himself be grateful for this small assistance from the larger man. The bruises to his pelvis are deep, and even this luxurious saddle has offered only limited respite from the many hours of riding._ _

__He slips one leg over the pommel and braces his hands on the leather as Imhotep reaches up to wrap his hands around Alex’s hips, his fingers sure and steady even after such a long day of riding. Alex doesn’t hesitate today, slipping forward and trusting his weight to Imhotep._ _

__His body is set down slowly, Imhotep showing off in a way that Alex really ought to roll his eyes at but he doesn’t._ _

__“I do hate cats.” Imhotep murmurs in his ear when he has at last put Alex’s feet to the sand, the elder’s fingers slipping away from him slowly. His thumbs linger perhaps for an extra moment at the spot just above the waist of his trousers where Alex’s shirt has almost come untucked._ _

__Alex grins and can’t help a choked off laugh from clawing its way out of him. “I remember.”_ _

__He looks at Imhotep’s face and the man is smiling with that infuriating, smug little smirk of his. That’s enough to make him roll his eyes at the elder, and Alex draws away to begin unloading their tent._ _

__Imhotep remains still for a long moment, just watching him work._ _

__\----_ _

__Haddad had many concerns about this trip before it began._ _

__The desert is always temperamental. To underestimate her is to goad death._ _

__Knowing this, Haddad prefers to respect the desert, to come to her prepared._ _

__It is very hard to prepare when he is presented with so much mystery._ _

__This young man- older than a boy but still with a wounded sort of youth in his heart- he is a great mystery._ _

__In the years Haddad has learned much under Imhotep’s employ. He has witnessed proof of the myths and legends. He has found evidence for their veracity in the artifacts they collect, the scrolls they unfurl, the creatures they encounter, and the tombs they unearth. He has learned, he believes absolutely, but he also does not understand. How could he? He is but a peon in his Master’s ever growing empire. The full scope of these ancient powers is beyond him, and he is comfortable in these mysteries for there is always Imhotep. The man is a beacon to them, a compass which pivots on divine wisdom. Always He knows, and Haddad has faith._ _

__There is always to be some mystery in this job. Haddad can accept this._ _

__But Alexander O’Connell is an enigma beyond all that. He is something new. Never before has his boss been so taken with such a seemingly insignificant thing. Try as he might, Haddad can see no more than a pretty, wounded face. A defiant temper. A voracious appetite for knowledge. A thirst for adventure. The young man is interesting, yes, entertaining even, but he is just a man._ _

__However the way Imhotep speaks of him- both when the boy is present and when he and Haddad are alone- hints of their past together. The words on Imhotep’s lips paint pictures of great glory and even greater suffering._ _

__Whenever Haddad thinks he has the shape of their relationship, he realizes he has only caught a glimpse, a shadow, a shape left behind in the smoke after the truth has slipped away._ _

__All that’s left is a mystery._ _

__So Haddad has concerns. The boy is strange, and he makes Imhotep strange too. Haddad does not know how to prepare for such uncertainties._ _

__He feels fortunate that so far their journey has gone smoothly._ _

__Jabari has been incorrigible: too friendly, too oblivious to their master’s temper. He expected that. Asim has been dull but consistent, a silent, steady hand. The Englishman has been defiant, observant, helpful. This he had not planned for but is grateful for the fortune._ _

__Imhotep has been... Strange._ _

__Haddad is beginning to believe that Jabari’s tasteless jests fall too close to the heart. Could it all really be as simple as that..._ _

__He glances subtly over to the fire where for the first time in three evenings Imhotep and Alex have remained next to one another to eat, Imhotep not retreating to the far side of the flames and Alex not treating him to stubborn silence._ _

__They share a few words back and forth as they finish their meal, sitting near enough that their shoulders just brush._ _

__Imhotep has preternatural endurance in Haddad’s experience, and remains warm and stoic even on the coldest of desert nights. While he watches, Alex tilts just a little closer to take advantage of that warmth._ _

__It is going to be very cold tonight._ _

__He turns his attention back to casting extra blankets over the camels’ backs to shelter them through the chill, clucking gently and carding his fingers through their tufty fur after he has finished._ _

__Jabari assists him, weaving between the animals expertly, producing small treats from a pouch at his hip which they take gladly, humming and nudging his hand for more._ _

__Jabari laughs. It comes so very easy to him._ _

__“You have a better sight of them old man, what do you see?” The younger whispers after a moment, petting Alex’s mount Aya as the female leans her neck against him._ _

__“I see nothing.”_ _

__“Do they embrace? Do they gaze into each other’s eyes? Does Imhotep confess his heart to Alex? You must tell me. Imhotep will skin me alive if he sees _me_ spying but he likes you.”_ _

__Haddad scowls, and refuses to feel guilty. “I will not spy on our master.”_ _

__“Bah. He is no master as long as he acts such a fool. He goads the boy when he should be sweet-”_ _

__“Enough, speak any more of treason and I will take care of you myself.”_ _

__Jabari’s dark eyes glitter in the night, his lightly bearded cheeks curved with a smile of deep mirth._ _

__“Peace Haddad. I mean no harm.”_ _

__“You mean no harm and yet harm you still cause. You are lucky to live after the shit you have been stirring.”_ _

__“Someone must.” Jabari argues with a shrug._ _

__Haddad frowns. “Leave it, Jabari. If you value your life half as much as you should you will let sleeping lions lie.”_ _

__“Jackals, not lions.” He whispers back as he steps out from between the camels, his eyebrow arched in a conspiratorial fashion before he turns his face back towards the fire and walks up to the small circle of warmth and light with deliberate noise so as to not come upon Imhotep unannounced._ _

__The boy has some self-preservation instinct in him at least._ _

__Haddad wrenches his eyes away from the scene and disappears between the camels once more, checking Jabari’s work and rechecking his own to make certain the animals will do well in the night. It would not do to come so near to their goal only to have a mount fall ill and slow them down. Fortunately Jabari is a hopeless flirt but an excellent hand and the ties look well secured. The camels are as much at peace as the great beasts can be. With a final pat to his own mount Haddad turns to join the others at the fire for a few moment’s companionship before retiring to his tent._ _

__In that moment however a dark shape swoops down from the sky, blocking out the stars._ _

__Haddad calls out a warning but Imhotep already has his eyes cast skyward, one arm half raised over Alex next to him, his expression sharp as he watches the shadow approach._ _

__Suddenly the elder is holding his arm aloft, providing a place where in the next moment a small falcon settles, beating its wings several times to find its balance, and hopping on one foot, holding the other out expectantly, presenting the tiny metal tube strapped to its leg for Imhotep’s inspection._ _

__Haddad lets out the breath which had caught in his lungs and relaxes the hand that had shot to the knife sheathed at his waist. After a moment he jogs to join the others._ _

__He recognizes the falcon as Tetu. It’s one of their own, from Cairo._ _

__Imhotep has already pulled the scrap of paper free by the time Haddad arrives, and Asim has put on his gloves to take the bird._ _

__Imhotep ignores everyone once the animal has hopped to it’s new perch. He leans close to the firelight, his skin looking uncanny reflecting a red glow. Angling the tiny missive towards the flames, he begins to decipher the coded glyphs._ _

__“What’s the word?” Jabari probes, irreverent as always but at least his tone is earnest. Haddad shoots him a frown however and a shake of his head before turning his attention back to their master._ _

__The man’s powerful features pull into a frown as he reads, concentration furrowing his brow. The message is short, by necessity of the format, and Imhotep soon shifts his dark eyes to the flames and passes the paper over his shoulder to Haddad so his second can read it for himself._ _

__He doesn’t speak for a long moment, and the others grow impatient._ _

__“What is it?” Alex asks._ _

__“A change in plans.” Imhotep offers after another moment spent processing. Outwardly he looks steady, but his mind is racing._ _

__Alex is still for a moment of his own, then he scowls. “What kind of change?”_ _

__“I must ride out to meet a messenger tomorrow.” Imhotep responds in a tone which will accept no arguments._ _

__“A messenger?” The young man argues anyway, his voice shrill, his tongue sharp. “Isn’t the point of a messenger that they come to you?”_ _

__There is a patience around Alex that Imhotep would show no one else. The boy challenges him at every turn. Such doubt would be intolerable in anyone else. With Alex, Imhotep simply soothes. “The messenger will need to take my reply back to Cairo. It is a matter of great urgency. More complex a missive than can be sent by falcon.”_ _

__“ _Come on_ , we’re not even a day’s ride from the tomb! How urgent can it be? You expect us to just, turn around?”_ _

__“No.” The deep rumble of Imhotep’s voice has the whole camp still, Alex pausing in his gesticulation, hands hovering in front of him, palms up as if in supplication. Even the hawk on Asim’s arm seems content to listen, it’s sharp beady eyes watching the tableau across the fire with preternatural interest._ _

__“No.” He says again, softer, meeting Alex’s eyes for the first time since the bird arrived. “Haddad and I will go to the messenger tomorrow. We will ride hard and meet him half way. I will return then, and see you not tomorrow night but the evening that follows. I will join you at the tomb.”_ _

__“So the rest of us are what, gonna sit on our thumbs as we wait for you to come back?”_ _

__“No.” Imhotep says one more time, voice gentling. “You are a competent archaeologist are you not? You will lead the expedition until I return.”_ _

__Alex just blinks at him for a flat minute before he twists his face into quite the dubious expression. “You’re trusting me in an ancient tomb full of cursed relics? On my own?”_ _

__“You will not be alone.” Imhotep says firmly. “Asim and Jabari will yet accompany you. And I _am_ trusting you to not be too great a fool while I am gone.”_ _

__“So much for a ‘competent archaeologist’” Alex mutters, toeing at the sand petulantly. His tone is light however, and Imhotep sighs next to him._ _

__“Make many sketches, Alexander. Translate what you can, map the tomb. Userkare was buried with little fanfare, I do not expect elaborate traps or complex curses to accost you. Be smart, Alexander, take notes, take your time, and I will join you as soon as I am able. I have faith in your abilities.”_ _

__Alex can say nothing to this and only shakes his head ruefully at the sand, shoulders slumping._ _

__“Understood?” Imhotep barks at the other three and Asim and Jabari both offer agreements verbally, Haddad nodding solemnly when Imhotep’s eyes fall on him._ _

__“Confirm with the messenger that we will meet him tomorrow night. Then retire, all of you. Haddad, we ride at dawn.” Haddad bows and with that Imhotep rises and a hand on Alex’s arm has the young man rising with him, unprotesting tonight as Imhotep escorts him to the tent which is set further apart from the other two. Imhotep lifts the tent flap, and the hand on Alex’s arm shifts to cover the small of the Englishman’s back. Like that, the two of them disappear inside._ _

__After a moment’s pause Jabari, very quietly, makes an inappropriate whistle and Haddad snaps his attention to him with a scowl. “Smother the fire, and take to your bed. Asim, give me pen and paper. We will send Tetu off tonight.”_ _

__\---_ _

__It is very dark in their tent._ _

__It’s always dark in their tent, but tonight it feels different for some reason._ _

__Alex kneels down and shuffles forward after removing off his shoes and socks. The tent is barely tall enough for one person to stand and Imhotep is already occupying that vertical space. The young man ends up kneeling on his bedroll, gritting his teeth against the soreness of his muscles and the throbbing ache of his bruises, resting heavily on his heels as he starts to undo the buttons of his shirt._ _

__“You will leave the bandages off tonight.” Imhotep murmurs, and Alex can hear him undoing the belt of his kaftan, shrugging off the garment and setting it aside. “You have healed well with the aid of my medicines, I believe your body will do its best work now if we let the skin breathe.”_ _

__Alex shrugs, letting his own shirt slip off his arms. He folds it haphazardly and tosses it towards the foot of his bedroll._ _

__“Fine.”_ _

__Shirt gone he feels Imhotep kneel down behind him, those remarkably deft fingers plucking at the knot they’d made the night before and beginning the work of unwrapping him._ _

__For a brief moment he wonders what he will do tomorrow night when Imhotep is not there. Should the pain spike will he be forced to apply liniment into his bruises on his own? Will Jabari help? He almost laughs aloud at the thought. This is such a solemn act between him and Imhotep. He can’t imagine Jabari performing it without a barrage of impertinent questions and wild conjecture._ _

__He sobers though as he continues to contemplate things. It is uncomfortable- surprisingly so- to imagine Imhotep gone._ _

__He will be cold tomorrow night._ _

__Alex frowns, lifting his arms helpfully so Imhotep may more easily move his hands around his chest, unwrapping the neat layers of gauze with even, deliberate pace._ _

__So what if he’s cold? He’s been cold before. He’ll live. He can sleep with a camel if it gets to be too much. Aya would surely hunker down with him for the night._ _

__Imhotep’s broad hands graze under his arms as they work, his finger tips just brushing over his skin and Alex barely contains a shiver._ _

__“You must be gentle with this injury.” Imhotep tuts. “I have sped the healing as best I can, but the bone is still cracked. It will need several weeks yet to fully heal.”_ _

__As Imhotep speaks he finishes unwinding the gauze and lays the whole of his hand over Alex’s bruised side. The ridiculous heat of him seeps from his palm and pours under Alex’s skin, soothing the ache that riding all day has left in him. He takes a deep breath and feels only a twinge of discomfort._ _

__“Sure thing.” He agrees hoarsely. His heart is thudding harder than it ought to, and he slips away from Imhotep’s touch, feeling strange and warm and out of his depth and needing some room to breathe._ _

__Alex goes to lay down face first on his bedroll but makes no move to arrange a blanket over himself. He has on only his pants, his chest bare and to remain so for the first time in more than a week. His skin feels overly sensitive and he shivers when he makes contact with the rough wool of his blankets._ _

__It feels good, if a bit overwhelming, and he shifts a few times before settling just to relish the sensation._ _

__With a sigh he quiets, but still makes no move to cover himself._ _

__“Alexander?” Imhotep asks after a moment. Alex was drifting to the sound of the elder’s clothing coming off article by article, the soft shift and shuffle of linen being folded and stacked carefully next to the entrance to the tent._ _

__“Mmpf.” Is the best response Alex can give before with a great effort he pushes himself up on his hands and flips over onto his back, shivering again at the fresh contact of raw skin against wool._ _

__He feels strange tonight. Really strange._ _

__There are eyes on him. He can feel them, the press of them, the weight of their esteem- and the strange feeling grows. Alex breathes heavily as he forces his eyes up to meet Imhotep’s, just a couple of glittering points in a dark silhouette. Only a faint light of moon filters through the walls of their tent, and Alex knows his skin of his chest is by far the palest thing here. Compared to their bed rolls he must be nearly glowing._ _

__He feels strange. Like a wild thing._ _

__Alex swallows loudly as Imhotep kneels. He has on a tunic to sleep in but he has not done up the tie that holds the neckline close. It gapes at his collarbone, and Alex can just make out in the dark a swath of tan skin which is exposed. On a woman it would look obscene. On Imhotep-_ _

__Alex chews on his lip._ _

__“My prize.” Imhotep whispers the endearment so quiet Alex almost doesn’t catch it, would almost ask him to repeat it but he doesn’t want to hear it again._ _

__His stomach squirms and he doesn’t entirely like the feeling. He can tell that he is blushing._ _

__“fuck.” He whispers to himself wrenching his eyes away from Imhotep and focusing on the walls of the tent, his breath catching in his chest as he tries to regain some composure._ _

__Alex jerks, then shivers as Imhotep places the full breadth of his hand over his bare chest. His thumb ghosts over the ladder of his ribs, the tip of his pointer finger just barely touching a nipple. He presses down in a way that’s firm but in no way restricting just... very real, very heavy, and Alex’s head swims as he hitches over another breath. His bruises ache just a little._ _

__Unable to bear it he shuts his eyes and reaches up to wrap his own hands around Imhotep’s wrist, needing the contact, needing to ground himself._ _

__“What do you want from me?” He manages to ask quietly after a heady pause to wet his lips. It’s so strange. His heart is hammering, that treacherous organ straining to break right through bone and sinew and collide with Imhotep’s burning touch. He’s afraid, but he’s not angry._ _

__“Everything.” Is Imhotep’s immediate reply and Alex shudders. He opens his mouth to deny him but Imhotep is there, face so close that Alex can feel his hot breath on his lips and Alex’s eyes shoot open again, words dying in his throat and forming a lump he has to fight to breathe around._ _

__“I will bring you as much pleasure as you permit tonight.” The elder murmurs, face a mess of shadows and smoke in the dark. Then he ducks down and Alex can’t help himself, he _whines_ when the former mummy’s hot, slick tongue makes contact with his neck and begins to lick wetly, laving hungrily before his lips seal over the skin to _suck_ -_ _

__There’s moisture shining in Alex’s eyes as he stares blindly up at the canopy, his hips twitching in spite of himself, rolling in these half-hearted little thrusts which bring his cock within a hairsbreadth of his keeper’s._ _

__He’s hard, damnit. He’s so hard._ _

__“I want-” Alex gurgles, then swallows, cheeks aflame as he shuts his eyes tight, needing darkness to find his courage. With a huff he ducks his chin down, dislodging Imhotep from his throat and forcing the man’s face to come up and align with his so he can be in no doubt of the words about to come out of Alex’s mouth._ _

__“I want you to suck me.”_ _

__There is no hesitation in Imhotep. “Yes.” He growls and once again Alex’s eyes spring open at the gust of hot breath, just in time to see Imhotep’s hand approach his face, those thick fingers cupping his cheek and holding him so very still in that enormous palm._ _

__That’s how their lips touch again, for the first time in ten years. Sheer will keeps Alex from producing the desperate sort of sob in his chest that wants to work its way out, his breath skipping in a way that makes him light headed as he brings his hands up from Imhotep’s wrist to wrap them instead around the curve of the man’s skull, finger tips digging in as he seizes him and pulls him even closer, daring him to leave again._ _

__“I still don’t like you.” Alex pants, desperate to be believed._ _

__Imhotep only smiles like Alex has said something so very sweet and the man’s full lips press a chaste, closed-mouth kiss to Alex’s frown before he withdraws far enough that Alex must release the death grip he has on the man’s head, his lungs filling with a rush of air as the man lets up too on the pressure he has been putting on Alex’s chest._ _

__“If I must yet wait for your love, little one, I will be content to survive on your lust.”_ _

__Alex has nothing to say to that as the man immediately begins to undo the fastening of Alex’s trousers, freeing him efficiently from the last of his clothing and casting it aside with little fanfare, leaving Alex naked and erect. A feast for a familiar predator and Alex feels small and breathless._ _

__“Such a beauty.” Imhotep praises, as if he could see the way it makes Alex flush in the dark, see the way his toes curl in nerves, his hands clench into fists._ _

__“Liar.” He chokes back. He catches the barest shake of Imhotep’s head in disagreement, before the man lowers himself, Imhotep’s knees spread to bracket Alex’s hips, his weight resting on his elbows, and his mouth diving down to attach his lips to one of Alex’s nipples enthusiastically._ _

__Alex gasps, one hand coming up to grip the back of Imhotep’s head again, his hips squirming, his back arching in spite of the pain it causes his ribs, pushing his chest against Imhotep’s mouth._ _

__“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” He chants softly, vaguely aware that if he’s loud Jabari will know, they all will know, and he’s not sure he can admit that much yet, not sure anyone can know, not even sure he wants to know that he’s doing this-_ _

__Oh hell, he’s really doing this._ _

__Imhotep’s other hand is petting gently over Alex’s other pectoral, his touch gentle over the injured flesh and Alex nearly wants him to press harder, to press down until there’s pain, to just snap the damn rib, make it really hurt._ _

__But the priest’s hands stay gentle, thumb brushing over the nipple not in his mouth so it doesn’t feel so abandoned and Alex shakes as sparks of pleasure dance through his chest._ _

__He pushes his hips up, leaving a sticky trail of pre-come against Imhotep’s stupid night shirt, gleefully sullying the dark cotton and the priest presses back. Hidden away is his own hard cock and it feels strange to welcome the push of it against his already aching hips. It feels familiar and terrifying and Alex wants and wants and wants-_ _

__A hard suck and a light press of teeth to his nipple has Alex yelping before he can help himself, one hand coming up to cover his mouth while Imhotep separates them just enough to shift his face lower._ _

__**“You are glorious.”** The man rumbles, switching from English to Ancient Egyptian and Alex’s brain reels. **Pale and warm as winter sunlight, so resilient, so wild-**_ _

__“English.” Alex gasps, feeling shadowy tendrils tug at his memories and he moves his hands down to grip the thick muscle where Imhotep’s neck meets his shoulders, squeezing, fingers relearning the familiar planes of his enemy. “Please.”_ _

__“As you wish.” Imhotep murmurs after a pause. “I only wish to worship you, my prize.” He offers in conciliation pressing his nose into Alex’s diaphragm so he may leave a gentle kiss just above his navel and it sends startling sparks dancing through Alex’s nerves, leaves him gasping._ _

__“My name is Alex.”_ _

__To this Imhotep only hums in reply but that face moves lower still, dislodging Alex’s hands from his shoulders. Those talented lips, that golden tongue set to their task._ _

__Wet pressure wraps around the head of Alex’s cock and he cries out sharply. Imhotep’s tongue presses firmly to the slit, coaxing the flavor of Alex’s precome from him and the young man whimpers, already weeping into Imhotep’s mouth._ _

__Alex remembers. He dreamed this once. Dreamed of Imhotep’s lips sliding up and down his shaft, of his tongue laving hungrily, his jaw going slack and welcoming, his mouth sliding down over the length of him._ _

__It felt like this._ _

__Alex forgets to stay quiet, forgets to be afraid, forgets his stupid name as Imhotep feasts, his large hands adding to the play. With one he grips the injured side of his lover’s pelvis and holds firm, pressing gently to stretch the wounded muscles. The sharp ache is painful and shockingly good in conjuncture with Imhotep’s attentions to his cock. Alex relaxes with the stretch, embraces it, and he whimpers around each trailing of that tongue up and down his shaft, each dangerous press of the flat of Imhotep’s teeth, each eager suck._ _

__With his other hand Imhotep plays with the base of Alex’s shaft, squeezing, stroking, pressing with his knuckle against that space between Alex’s cock and his balls sending a spark of pleasure which sizzles through his nerves like lightning. Alex spasms, wanting to clamp his knees together, to convulse. He pants through it, moaning, the breadth of Imhotep’s body and the press of his hands keeping Alex’s body spread open to his labors. He’s kept bare for Imhotep and his desires._ _

__“Fuck, Imhotep-” Alex chokes out the man’s name and as reward this Ancient Malice hums once and opens his throat to swallow Alex whole, his nose pressing down to the short dark hairs at the base of Alex’s cock._ _

__The wet heat grips Alex so hungrily, with such avarice and gluttony that he lets out a startled yell, his body shaking, pleasure shooting up his spine, through his hips, his chest, sending out sparks behind his eyes._ _

__“Ahhh” He moans, the rhythmic sounds of Imhotep’s ministration erotic and foul and Alex knows he can’t last._ _

__His hands are in fists on his chest, his arms wrapped around himself like he’s holding back his heart and his lungs which are trying so hard to break free of his constraining skeleton._ _

__Without ceasing the rhythmic bobbing of his head, the hot, slick press and release of his throat, Imhotep lets go of Alex’s thigh, moving the leg so it’s under his arm, letting the boy’s knees squeeze his chest in little contractions of pleasure. With one hand now free he forces his fingers into one of Alex’s clenched fists, separating the digits so he may lace them with his own, squeezing tight as Alec cries out helplessly, his hips thrusting restlessly in tandem with Imhotep’s works._ _

__Little staccato ‘ah, ah, ah’s pass Alex’s lips and its beyond him, he can’t stop as the building of pleasure pushes and pushes, swelling in his veins, sparking in his nerves._ _

__“I’m gonna- Imhotep-” He tries to warn but the man just doubles down, knuckling harder against the base of Alex’s cock and the young man is done, choking and letting out a long, moaning sob as his balls draw up against Imhotep’s hand and he starts to come._ _

__Imhotep just swallows him down, through each surge of pleasure, each pulse of come Alex can just pant and whine and sob, his head thrashing on the blankets, his hand holding Imhotep’s with a death grip._ _

__It feels so good. It’s been so long._ _

__Panting heavily, trying to catch his breath, Alex opens his eyes for Imhotep, knowing the night is not yet finished._ _

__Imhotep keeps his mouth wrapped around Alex’s cock, and in the dark Alex can just make out the glint of his eyes as he stares up at him, over the shifting planes of his body, drinking in the sight of him._ _

__Alex twitches, moaning when the priest swallows again, his throat coaxing another little spasm out of him._ _

__Alex opens his mouth to say its too much, he feels too much, but Imhotep pulls back before he can get the words out, letting his tongue softly trail over the spent organ, his hand catching Alex’s cock as it slips from his lips, holding it warm in his hand. Alex shivers, frightened for a moment that Imhotep will begin to stroke him, to coax another round from him, bring him back to hardness before he is ready-_ _

__But the man just holds him, keeping the sensitive nerves from the cold air and Alex shivers violently, squeezing the hand still holding his._ _

__They just stare at each other for a long time. Alex’s heart never really slows, his eyes glittering more than he knows in the dark, holding Imhotep enraptured._ _

__Slowly the elder releases Alex’s prick and shifts his hand so he can brace himself to lean forward, bringing his lips down to cover Alex’s own. His tongue is salty with the flavor of the younger and Alex gasps into the kiss as his lips are pried open, his own tongue drawn out to stroke against the other in a wet tangle, their lips slipping against each other, Imhotep pausing to nip now and again before sucking on the wounded pink flesh._ _

__Alex is breathing heavily when at length Imhotep pulls away._ _

__As he watches the priest draws back and kneels up, shifting so Alex’s legs are allowed to close and Imhotep is instead straddling the younger once gain. Letting Alex’s hand go with one last squeeze, he yanks his tunic up and over his head, bearing himself for Alex’s sight._ _

__Imhotep hasn’t come yet. Alex’s tired heart begins to pound again._ _

__“Not inside me.” Alex croaks, eyes huge and mouth watering as he watches Imhotep crawl forward, proudly displaying that large leaking cock which has been a feature of Alex’s nightmares these last ten years. The sight of it again, erect and straining towards him, is terrible and delicious in equal measure._ _

__Imhotep does not verbally acknowledge this edict but he makes no move to re-insinuate himself between Alex’s legs, letting the younger man keep them loosely closed, muscles still occasionally twitching tight with the remnant shocks of pleasure, his own cock wet and soft against his thigh._ _

__Instead he silently stalks, his large chest moving with deep quiet breaths, his eyes dark and boring into Alex’s as he brings himself forward to kneel over the younger, their faces aligned, his knees bracketing Alex’s still loosely rolling hips._ _

__Alex’s heartbeat accelerates to a rabbit’s pace, his lungs heaving his ribs up and down, his skin slick with sweat and still tingling with pleasure, an anticipation winding him tight, tight, tight-_ _

__When Imhotep moves one hand to reach under himself and begin firmly stroking his own cock Alex nearly cries out at the violent surge of lust which washes through a body too recently depleted to get hard again._ _

__“Fuck.” He manages to choke out wetly, dropping his head down onto the ground, his spine lacking the strength to hold his neck up any longer, his will utterly shredded._ _

__He can hear the slick wet slide of Imhotep’s hand gliding over himself, his firm grip creating an obscene, slippery sound and Alex’s body _shakes_. _ _

__When the movement stops Alex stops breathing, his brain slow to register why-_ _

__Then he feels Imhotep’s hand, wet, sticky, plucking at his fingers and Alex looks down the length of his body helplessly, his skin singing as Imhotep tangles their hands together._ _

__The man hasn’t stopped looking at his face, not once. He does not smirk or smile, he does not laugh or mock; nor does he grimace or screw his face up in some great contortion of pleasure. He is nearly like stone, his focus so fiercely pinned on Alex. Only the shuddering of a muscle in his jaw betrays the way he clenches his teeth, the movement of his adam’s apple as he swallows heavily, probably still tasting Alex, the flavor of him-_ _

__Imhotep brings Alex’s hand inexorably into the hot damp space between them, and he wraps those smaller, slimmer fingers around the breadth of his cock before wrapping his own digits around them both. A tight squeeze and Alex’s hand becomes a warm passage for Imhotep to rut into, a cloying press of warm skin made damp by sweat and copious pre-come and Alex keens lowly, watching that slippery wet head as it disappears into his fist before emerging again, again, again, fucking his hand with a familiar strength, a familiar rhythm._ _

__“Alexander.” Imhotep growls lowly and Alex grits his teeth against a sob, panting like he’s the one fucking into such a lovely orifice, hips hitching like he’s hard again, like he could almost come again-_ _

__Imhotep doesn’t last long. He snarls lowly as he is overcome with pleasure, squeezing Alex’s hand hard, forcing his grip to tighten around Imhotep’s pulsing length. Hot come spills over Alex’s fingers, spatters on his stomach. It’s filthy, a violation, and Alex doesn’t stifle a long low moan, his own cock twitching valiantly but he has nothing of himself left to give tonight._ _

__When Imhotep’s hips still completely he gentles his grip on Alex’s hand, letting the young man reclaim his fingers._ _

__Fingers wet with Imhotep’s semen._ _

__Before he can stop himself Alex brings his come covered hand to his lips and extends his tongue for a single lick. He feels too tired and too jaded to deny that he wants to taste this again, just once. If he’s making this mistake let it be a mistake lived fully._ _

__Then he lazily presents his hand to Imhotep, his palm spattered in white, asking silently to be cleaned._ _

__Imhotep’s eyes glow with a still smoldering hunger as he reaches up with his own dirtied hand and clasps Alex’s fingers, bringing them up to his lips so he may reach out with his tongue and lick them clean of the rest of his own spend._ _

__He makes eye contact and holds it throughout the whole process. Tears moisten Alex’s own lashes and he sniffs._ _

__He still feels strange. But it doesn’t feel all bad._ _

__When he’s finished with Alex’s hand he ducks down to attend to the few streaks of come on Alex’s belly. He cleans him efficiently, erasing the evidence of his pleasure. It’s not a hot bath, but it will suffice._ _

__He does everything else after that, Alex helping only half heartedly in arranging their bedrolls a bit closer, shifting the way the blankets overlap so that it is one big pile and two separate nests no longer._ _

__Alex feels he should protest, make a fuss about the agreements they made before this journey began._ _

__He feels like he should say something stupid, like ask Imhotep to wake him before he leaves._ _

__But he says nothing at all, just shuffles under the blankets when they have been arranged to Imhotep’s satisfaction, and sighs when the man joins him. Neither of them redress._ _

__All this skin pressed together is too familiar. It nearly hurts to have the firm planes of Imhotep’s chest rise and fall beneath his hands once again, but Alex just shuts his eyes and burrows against Imhotep’s warmth. He lets the larger wrap his arms around him with a murmur of praise that he can’t quiet catch, and allows sleep to catch him in her gentle waves, pulling him out to sea._ _

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dark Sands Sing Strange Songs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6420805) by [sugarplumScary (Frequently_Tricky_Witch)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frequently_Tricky_Witch/pseuds/sugarplumScary)




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